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Title: Une Vie, a Piece of String and Other Stories

Author: Guy de Maupassant

Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7114]

Most recently updated: October 4, 2014

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Thomas Berger, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNE VIE, A PIECE OF STRING AND OTHER STORIES ***

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

UNE VIE

A Piece of String

And Other Stories

Translated by

Albert M. C. McMaster, B.A.

A. E. Henderson, B.A.

Mme. Quesada and Others

VOLUME I.

[Illustration: "Jeanne"]

CONTENTS

- Introduction by Pol. Neveux

- Une Vie (The History of a Heart)

1. The Home by the Sea

2. Happy Days

3. M. de Lamare

4. Marriage and Disillusion

5. Corsica and a New Life

6. Disenchantment

7. Jeanne's Discovery

8. Maternity

9. Death of La Baronne

10. Retribution

11. The Development of Paul

12. A New Home

13. Jeanne in Paris

14. Light at Eventide

- A Vagabond

- The Fishing Hole

- The Spasm

- In The Wood

- Martine

- All Over

- The Parrot

- A Piece Of String

[Illustration: Guy de Maupassant]

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

A Study by Pol. Neveux

"I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a

thunderbolt." These words of Maupassant to José Maria de Heredia on

the occasion of a memorable meeting are, in spite of their morbid

solemnity, not an inexact summing up of the brief career during which,

for ten years, the writer, by turns undaunted and sorrowful, with the

fertility of a master hand produced poetry, novels, romances and

travels, only to sink prematurely into the abyss of madness and

death....

In the month of April, 1880, an article appeared in the "Le Gaulois"

announcing the publication of the Soirées de Médan. It was signed by a

name as yet unknown: Guy de Maupassant. After a juvenile diatribe

against romanticism and a passionate attack on languorous literature,

the writer extolled the study of real life, and announced the

publication of the new work. It was picturesque and charming. In the

quiet of evening, on an island in the Seine, beneath poplars instead

of the Neapolitan cypresses dear to the friends of Boccaccio, amid the

continuous murmur of the valley, and no longer to the sound of the

Pyrennean streams that murmured a faint accompaniment to the tales of

Marguerite's cavaliers, the master and his disciples took turns in

narrating some striking or pathetic episode of the war. And the issue,

in collaboration, of these tales in one volume, in which the master

jostled elbows with his pupils, took on the appearance of a manifesto,

the tone of a challenge, or the utterance of a creed.

In fact, however, the beginnings had been much more simple, and they

had confined themselves, beneath the trees of Médan, to deciding on a

general title for the work. Zola had contributed the manuscript of the

"Attaque du Moulin," and it was at Maupassant's house that the five

young men gave in their contributions. Each one read his story,

Maupassant being the last. When he had finished Boule de Suif, with a

spontaneous impulse, with an emotion they never forgot, filled with

enthusiasm at this revelation, they all rose and, without superfluous

words, acclaimed him as a master.

He undertook to write the article for the Gaulois and, in coöperation

with his friends, he worded it in the terms with which we are

familiar, amplifying and embellishing it, yielding to an inborn taste

for mystification which his youth rendered excusable. The essential

point, he said, is to "unmoor" criticism.

It was unmoored. The following day Wolff wrote a polemical

dissertation in the Figaro and carried away his colleagues. The volume

was a brilliant success, thanks to Boule de Suif. Despite the novelty,

the honesty of effort, on the part of all, no mention was made of the

other stories. Relegated to the second rank, they passed without

notice. From his first battle, Maupassant was master of the field in

literature.

At once the entire press took him up and said what was appropriate

regarding the budding celebrity. Biographers and reporters sought

information concerning his life. As it was very simple and perfectly

straightforward, they resorted to invention. And thus it is that at

the present day Maupassant appears to us like one of those ancient

heroes whose origin and death are veiled in mystery.

I will not dwell on Guy de Maupassant's younger days. His relatives,

his old friends, he himself, here and there in his works, have

furnished us in their letters enough valuable revelations and touching

remembrances of the years preceding his literary début. His worthy

biographer, H. Édouard Maynial, after collecting intelligently all the

writings, condensing and comparing them, has been able to give us some

definite information regarding that early period.

I will simply recall that he was born on the 5th of August, 1850, near

Dieppe, in the castle of Miromesnil which he describes in Une Vie....

Maupassant, like Flaubert, was a Norman, through his mother, and

through his place of birth he belonged to that strange and adventurous

race, whose heroic and long voyages on tramp trading ships he liked to

recall. And just as the author of "Éducation sentimentale" seems to

have inherited in the paternal line the shrewd realism of Champagne,

so de Maupassant appears to have inherited from his Lorraine ancestors

their indestructible discipline and cold lucidity.

His childhood was passed at Étretat, his beautiful childhood; it was

there that his instincts were awakened in the unfoldment of his

prehistoric soul. Years went by in an ecstasy of physical happiness.

The delight of running at full speed through fields of gorse, the

charm of voyages of discovery in hollows and ravines, games beneath

the dark hedges, a passion for going to sea with the fishermen and, on

nights when there was no moon, for dreaming on their boats of

imaginary voyages.

Mme. de Maupassant, who had guided her son's early reading, and had

gazed with him at the sublime spectacle of nature, put off as long as

possible the hour of separation. One day, however, she had to take the

child to the little seminary at Yvetot. Later, he became a student at

the college at Rouen, and became a literary correspondent of Louis

Bouilhet. It was at the latter's house on those Sundays in winter when

the Norman rain drowned the sound of the bells and dashed against the

window panes that the school boy learned to write poetry.

Vacation took the rhetorician back to the north of Normandy. Now it

was shooting at Saint Julien-l'Hospitalier, across fields, bogs, and

through the woods. From that time on he sealed his pact with the

earth, and those "deep and delicate roots" which attached him to his

native soil began to grow. It was of Normandy, broad, fresh and

virile, that he would presently demand his inspiration, fervent and

eager as a boy's love; it was in her that he would take refuge when,

weary of life, he would implore a truce, or when he simply wished to

work and revive his energies in old-time joys. It was at this time

that was born in him that voluptuous love of the sea, which in later

days could alone withdraw him from the world, calm him, console him.

In 1870 he lived in the country, then he came to Paris to live; for,

the family fortunes having dwindled, he had to look for a position.

For several years he was a clerk in the Ministry of Marine, where he

turned over musty papers, in the uninteresting company of the clerks

of the admiralty.

Then he went into the department of Public Instruction, where

bureaucratic servility is less intolerable. The daily duties are

certainly scarcely more onerous and he had as chiefs, or colleagues,

Xavier Charmes and Leon Dierx, Henry Roujon and René Billotte, but his

office looked out on a beautiful melancholy garden with immense plane

trees around which black circles of crows gathered in winter.

Maupassant made two divisions of his spare hours, one for boating, and

the other for literature. Every evening in spring, every free day, he

ran down to the river whose mysterious current veiled in fog or

sparkling in the sun called to him and bewitched him. In the islands

in the Seine between Chatou and Port-Marly, on the banks of

Sartrouville and Triel he was long noted among the population of

boatmen, who have now vanished, for his unwearying biceps, his cynical

gaiety of goodfellowship, his unfailing practical jokes, his broad

witticisms. Sometimes he would row with frantic speed, free and

joyous, through the glowing sunlight on the stream; sometimes, he

would wander along the coast, questioning the sailors, chatting with

the ravageurs, or junk gatherers, or stretched at full length amid the

irises and tansy he would lie for hours watching the frail insects

that play on the surface of the stream, water spiders, or white

butterflies, dragon flies, chasing each other amid the willow leaves,

or frogs asleep on the lily-pads.

The rest of his life was taken up by his work. Without ever becoming

despondent, silent and persistent, he accumulated manuscripts, poetry,

criticisms, plays, romances and novels. Every week he docilely

submitted his work to the great Flaubert, the childhood friend of his

mother and his uncle Alfred Le Poittevin. The master had consented to

assist the young man, to reveal to him the secrets that make

chefs-d'oeuvre immortal. It was he who compelled him to make copious

research and to use direct observation and who inculcated in him a

horror of vulgarity and a contempt for facility.

Maupassant himself tells us of those severe initiations in the Rue

Murillo, or in the tent at Croisset; he has recalled the implacable

didactics of his old master, his tender brutality, the paternal advice

of his generous and candid heart. For seven years Flaubert slashed,

pulverized, the awkward attempts of his pupil whose success remained

uncertain.

Suddenly, in a flight of spontaneous perfection, he wrote Boule de

Suif. His master's joy was great and overwhelming. He died two months

later.

Until the end Maupassant remained illuminated by the reflection of the

good, vanished giant, by that touching reflection that comes from the

dead to those souls they have so profoundly stirred. The worship of

Flaubert was a religion from which nothing could distract him, neither

work, nor glory, nor slow moving waves, nor balmy nights.

At the end of his short life, while his mind was still clear, he wrote

to a friend: "I am always thinking of my poor Flaubert, and I say to

myself that I should like to die if I were sure that anyone would

think of me in the same manner."

During these long years of his novitiate Maupassant had entered the

social literary circles. He would remain silent, preoccupied; and if

anyone, astonished at his silence, asked him about his plans he

answered simply: "I am learning my trade." However, under the

pseudonym of Guy de Valmont, he had sent some articles to the

newspapers, and, later, with the approval and by the advice of

Flaubert, he published, in the "République des Lettres," poems signed

by his name.

These poems, overflowing with sensuality, where the hymn to the Earth

describes the transports of physical possession, where the impatience

of love expresses itself in loud melancholy appeals like the calls of

animals in the spring nights, are valuable chiefly inasmuch as they

reveal the creature of instinct, the fawn escaped from his native

forests, that Maupassant was in his early youth. But they add nothing

to his glory. They are the "rhymes of a prose writer" as Jules

Lemaitre said. To mould the expression of his thought according to the

strictest laws, and to "narrow it down" to some extent, such was his

aim. Following the example of one of his comrades of Médan, being

readily carried away by precision of style and the rhythm of

sentences, by the imperious rule of the ballad, of the pantoum or the

chant royal, Maupassant also desired to write in metrical lines.

However, he never liked this collection that he often regretted having

published. His encounters with prosody had left him with that

monotonous weariness that the horseman and the fencer feel after a

period in the riding school, or a bout with the foils.

Such, in very broad lines, is the story of Maupassant's literary

apprenticeship.

The day following the publication of "Boule de Suif," his reputation

began to grow rapidly. The quality of his story was unrivalled, but at

the same time it must be acknowledged that there were some who, for

the sake of discussion, desired to place a young reputation in

opposition to the triumphant brutality of Zola.

From this time on, Maupassant, at the solicitation of the entire

press, set to work and wrote story after story. His talent, free from

all influences, his individuality, are not disputed for a moment. With

a quick step, steady and alert, he advanced to fame, a fame of which

he himself was not aware, but which was so universal, that no

contemporary author during his life ever experienced the same. The

"meteor" sent out its light and its rays were prolonged without limit,

in article after article, volume on volume.

He was now rich and famous.... He is esteemed all the more as they

believe him to be rich and happy. But they do not know that this young

fellow with the sunburnt face, thick neck and salient muscles whom

they invariably compare to a young bull at liberty, and whose love

affairs they whisper, is ill, very ill. At the very moment that

success came to him, the malady that never afterwards left him came

also, and, seated motionless at his side, gazed at him with its

threatening countenance. He suffered from terrible headaches, followed

by nights of insomnia. He had nervous attacks, which he soothed with

narcotics and anesthetics, which he used freely. His sight, which had

troubled him at intervals, became affected, and a celebrated oculist

spoke of abnormality, asymetry of the pupils. The famous young man

trembled in secret and was haunted by all kinds of terrors.

The reader is charmed at the saneness of this revived art and yet,

here and there, he is surprised to discover, amid descriptions of

nature that are full of humanity, disquieting flights towards the

supernatural, distressing conjurations, veiled at first, of the most

commonplace, the most vertiginous shuddering fits of fear, as old as

the world and as eternal as the unknown. But, instead of being

alarmed, he thinks that the author must be gifted with infallible

intuition to follow out thus the taints in his characters, even

through their most dangerous mazes. The reader does not know that

these hallucinations which he describes so minutely were experienced

by Maupassant himself; he does not know that the fear is in himself,

the anguish of fear "which is not caused by the presence of danger, or

of inevitable death, but by certain abnormal conditions, by certain

mysterious influences in presence of vague dangers," the "fear of

fear, the dread of that horrible sensation of incomprehensible

terror."

How can one explain these physical sufferings and this morbid distress

that were known for some time to his intimates alone? Alas! the

explanation is only too simple. All his life, consciously or

unconsciously, Maupassant fought this malady, hidden as yet, which was

latent in him.

Those who first saw Maupassant when the Contes de la Bécasse and Bel

Ami were published were somewhat astonished at his appearance. He was

solidly built, rather short and had a resolute, determined air, rather

unpolished and without those distinguishing marks of intellect and

social position. But his hands were delicate and supple, and beautiful

shadows encircled his eyes.

He received visitors with the graciousness of the courteous head of a

department, who resigns himself to listen to demands, allowing them to

talk as he smiled faintly, and nonplussing them by his calmness.

How chilling was this first interview to young enthusiasts who had

listened to Zola unfolding in lyric formula audacious methods, or to

the soothing words of Daudet, who scattered with prodigality striking,

thrilling ideas, picturesque outlines and brilliant synopses.

Maupassant's remarks, in têtes-à-têtes, as in general conversation,

were usually current commonplaces and on ordinary time-worn topics.

Convinced of the superfluousness of words, perhaps he confounded them

all in the same category, placing the same estimate on a thought nobly

expressed as on a sally of coarse wit. One would have thought so, to

see the indifference with which he treated alike the chatter of the

most decided mediocrities and the conversation of the noblest minds of

the day. Not an avowal, not a confidence, that shed light on his life

work. Parsimonious of all he observed, he never related a typical

anecdote, or offered a suggestive remark. Praise, even, did not move

him, and if by chance he became animated it was to tell some practical

joke, some atelier hoaxes, as if he had given himself up to the

pleasure of hoaxing and mystifying people.

He appeared besides to look upon art as a pastime, literature as an

occupation useless at best, while he willingly relegated love to the

performance of a function, and suspected the motives of the most

meritorious actions.

Some say that this was the inborn basis of his personal psychology. I

do not believe it. That he may have had a low estimate of humanity,

that he may have mistrusted its disinterestedness, contested the

quality of its virtue, is possible, even certain. But that he was not

personally superior to his heroes I am unwilling to admit. And if I

see in his attitude, as in his language, an evidence of his inveterate

pessimism, I see in it also a method of protecting his secret thoughts

from the curiosity of the vulgar.

Perhaps he overshot the mark. By dint of hearing morality, art and

literature depreciated, and seeing him preoccupied with boating, and

listening to his own accounts of love affairs which he did not always

carry on in the highest class, many ended by seeing in him one of

those terrible Normans who, all through his novels and stories,

carouse and commit social crimes with such commanding assurance and

such calm unmorality.

He was undoubtedly a Norman, and, according to those who knew him

best, many of his traits of character show that atavism is not always

an idle word....

To identify Maupassant with his characters is a gross error, but is

not without precedent. We always like to trace the author in the hero

of a romance, and to seek the actor beneath the disguise. No doubt, as

Taine has said, "the works of an intelligence have not the

intelligence alone for father and mother, but the whole personality of

the man helps to produce them...."

That is why Maupassant himself says to us, "No, I have not the soul of

a decadent, I cannot look within myself, and the effort I make to

understand unknown souls is incessant, involuntary and dominant. It is

not an effort; I experience a sort of overpowering sense of insight

into all that surrounds me. I am impregnated with it, I yield to it, I

submerge myself in these surrounding influences."

That is, properly speaking, the peculiarity of all great novelists.

Who experiences this insight, this influence more than Balzac, or

Flaubert, in Madame Bovary? And so with Maupassant, who, pen in hand,

is the character he describes, with his passions, his hatreds, his

vices and his virtues. He so incorporates himself in him that the

author disappears, and we ask ourselves in vain what his own opinion

is of what he has just told us. He has none possibly, or if he has he

does not tell it.

This agrees admirably with the theory of impassivity in literature, so

much in vogue when Maupassant became known. But despite that theory he

is, if one understands him, quite other than

"A being without pity who contemplated suffering."

He has the deepest sympathy for the weak, for the victims of the

deceptions of society, for the sufferings of the obscure. If the

successful adventurer, Lesable, and the handsome Maze are the objects

of his veiled irony, he maintains, or feels a sorrowful, though

somewhat disdainful tenderness, for poor old Savon, the old copying

clerk of the Ministry of Marine, who is the drudge of the office and

whose colleagues laugh at him because his wife deceived him, sans

espoir d'"heritage."

Why did Maupassant at the start win universal favor? It is because he

had direct genius, the clear vision of a "primitive" (an artist of the

pre-Renaissance). His materials were just those of a graduate who,

having left college, has satisfied his curiosity. Grasping the simple

and ingenious, but strong and appropriate tools that he himself has

forged, he starts out in the forest of romance, and instead of being

overcome by the enchantment of its mystery, he walks through it

unfalteringly with a joyful step....

He was a minstrel. Offspring of a race, and not the inheritor of a

formula, he narrated to his contemporaries, bewildered by the lyrical

deformities of romanticism, stories of human beings, simple and

logical, like those which formerly delighted our parents.

The French reader who wished to be amused was at once at home, on the

same footing with him.... More spontaneous than the first troubadours,

he banished from his writings abstract and general types,

"romanticized" life itself, and not myths, those eternal legends that

stray through the highways of the world.

Study closely these minstrels in recent works; read M. Joseph Bédier's

beautiful work, Les Fabliaux, and you will see how, in Maupassant's

prose, ancestors, whom he doubtless never knew, are brought to life.

The Minstrel feels neither anger nor sympathy; he neither censures,

nor moralizes; for the self-satisfied Middle Ages cannot conceive the

possibility of a different world. Brief, quick, he despises aims and

methods, his only object is to entertain his auditors. Amusing and

witty, he cares only for laughter and ridicule....

But Maupassant's stories are singularly different in character. In the

nineteenth century the Gallic intellect had long since foundered amid

vileness and debauchery. In the provinces the ancient humor had

disappeared; one chattered still about nothing, but without point,

without wit; "trifling" was over, as they call it in Champagne. The

nauseating pabulum of the newspapers and low political intrigue had

withered the French intellect, that delicate, rare intellect, the last

traces of which fade away in the Alsatian stories of Erckman-Chatrian,

in the Provençal tales of Alphonse Daudet, in the novels of Emile

Pouvillon. Maupassant is not one of them. He knows nothing about

humor, for he never found it in Life....

His ambition was not to make one laugh; he writes for the pleasure of

recalling, without bias, what, to him, seems a halfway and dangerous

truth.... In his pessimism, Maupassant despises the race, society,

civilization and the world....

If Maupassant draws from anyone it is Schopenhauer and Herbert

Spencer, of whom he often speaks, although one does not know if he

studied them very deeply. In all his books, excepting, of course, in

the case of lines from the great tragic poets, one finds only one

credited reference, which in to Sir John Lubbock's work on ants, an

extract from which is introduced into Yvette.

No one was less bookish than himself. He was a designer, and one of

the greatest in literature. His heroes, little folk, artisans or

rustics, bureaucrats or shopkeepers, prostitutes or rakes, he places

them in faintly colored, but well-defined surroundings. And,

immediately, the simplified landscape gives the keynote of the story.

In his descriptions he resists the temptation of asserting his

personal view. He will not allow himself to see more of his landscape

than his characters themselves see. He is also careful to avoid all

refined terms and expressions, to introduce no element superior to the

characters of his heroes.

He never makes inanimate nature intervene directly in human

tribulations; she laughs at our joys and our sorrows.... Once, only,

in one of his works, the trees join in the universal mourning--the

great, sad beeches weep in autumn for the soul, the little soul, of la

petite Roque.

And yet Maupassant adores this nature, the one thing that moves

him.... But, in spite of this, he can control himself; the artist is

aware of the danger to his narration should he indulge in the

transports of a lover.

With an inborn perception, Maupassant at once seizes on the principal

detail, the essential peculiarity that distinguishes a character and

builds round it. He also, in the presentation of his character,

assumes an authority that no writer, not even Balzac, ever

equalled....

He traces what he sees with rapid strokes. His work is a vast

collection of powerful sketches, synthetic draftings. Like all great

artists, he was a simplifier; he knew how to "sacrifice" like the

Egyptians and Greeks....

Thanks to his rapid methods the master "cinematographed," if I may use

the word, inexhaustible stories. Among them, each person may find

himself represented, the artist, the clerk, the thinker, and the

non-commissioned officer.

Maupassant was always impatient to "realize" his observations. He

might forget, and above all, the flower of the sensation might lose

its perfume. In Une Vie he hastens to sum up his childhood's

recollections. As for Bel Ami, he wrote it from day to day as he

haunted the offices of Editors.

As for his style, it is limpid, accurate, easy and strongly marked,

with a sound framework and having the suppleness of a living organism.

Very industrious and very careful at first, Maupassant, in the fever

of production, became less careful. He early accustomed himself to

composing in his mind. "Composition amuses me," he said, "when I am

thinking it out, and not when I am writing it." ... Once he had

thought out his novels or romances, he transcribed them hurriedly,

almost mechanically. In his manuscripts, long pages follow each other

without an erasure.

His language appears natural, easy, and at first sight seems

spontaneous. But at the price of what effort was it not acquired! ...

In reality, in the writer, his sense of sight and smell were

perfected, to the detriment of the sense of hearing which is not very

musical. Repetitions, assonances, do not always shock Maupassant, who

is sometimes insensible to quantity as he is to harmony. He does not

"orchestrate," he has not inherited the "organ pipes" of Flaubert.

In his vocabulary there is no research; he never even requires a rare

word....

Those whom Flaubert's great organ tones delighted, those whom

Theophile Gautier's frescoes enchanted, were not satisfied, and

accused Maupassant, somewhat harshly, of not being a "writer" in the

highest sense of the term. The reproach is unmerited, for there is but

one style.

But, on the other hand, it is difficult to admit, with an eminent

academician that Maupassant must be a great writer, a classical

writer, in fact, simply because he "had no style," a condition of

perfection "in that form of literary art in which the personality of

the author should not appear, in the romance, the story, and the

drama."

A classic, Maupassant undoubtedly is, as the critic to whom I alluded

has said, "through the simple aptness of his terms and his contempt

for frivolous ornamentation."

He remains a great writer because, like Molière, La Bruyère, and La

Fontaine, he is always close to nature, disdaining all studied

rhetorical effect and all literary verbosity.

For applause and fame Maupassant cared nothing, and his proud contempt

for Orders and Academies is well known.

In a letter to Marie Bashkirtseff he writes as follows:

"Everything in life is almost alike to me, men, women, events. This is

my true confession of faith, and I may add what you may not believe,

which is that I do not care any more for myself than I do for the

rest. All is divided into ennui, comedy and misery. I am indifferent

to everything. I pass two-thirds of my time in being terribly bored. I

pass the third portion in writing sentences which I sell as dear as I

can, regretting that I have to ply this abominable trade."

And in a later letter:

"I have no taste that I cannot get rid of at my pleasure, not a desire

that I do not scoff at, not a hope that does not make me smile or

laugh. I ask myself why I stir, why I go hither or thither, why I give

myself the odious trouble of earning money, since it does not amuse me

to spend it."

And again:

"As for me, I am incapable of really loving my art. I am too critical,

I analyze it too much. I feel strongly how relative is the value of

ideas, words, and even of the loftiest intelligences. I cannot help

despising thought, it is so weak; and form, it is so imperfect. I

really have, in an acute, incurable form, the sense of human

impotence, and of effort which results in wretched approximations."

For nature, Maupassant had an ardent passion.... His whole being

quivered when she bathed his forehead with her light ocean breeze.

She, alone, knew how to rock and soothe him with her waves.

Never satisfied, he wished to see her under all aspects, and travelled

incessantly, first in his native province, amid the meadows and waters

of Normandy, then on the banks of the Seine along which he coasted,

bending to the oar. Then Brittany with its beaches, where high waves

rolled in beneath low and dreary skies, then Auvergne, with its

scattered huts amid the sour grass, beneath rocks of basalt; and,

finally, Corsica, Italy, Sicily, not with artistic enthusiasm, but

simply to enjoy the delight of grand, pure outlines. Africa, the

country of Salammbô, the desert, finally call him, and he breathes

those distant odors borne on the slow winds; the sunlight inundates

his body, "laves the dark corners of his soul." And he retains a

troubled memory of the evenings in those warm climes, where the

fragrance of plants and trees seems to take the place of air.

Maupassant's philosophy is as little complicated as his vision of

humanity. His pessimism exceeds in its simplicity and depth that of

all other realistic writers.

Still there are contradictions and not unimportant ones in him. The

most striking is certainly his fear of Death. He sees it everywhere,

it haunts him. He sees it on the horizon of landscapes, and it crosses

his path on lonely roads. When it is not hovering over his head, it is

circling round him as around Gustave Moreau's pale youth.... Can he,

the determined materialist, really fear the stupor of eternal sleep,

or the dispersion of the transient individuality? ...

Another contradiction. He who says that contact with the crowd

"tortures his nerves," and who professes such contempt for mankind,

yet considers solitude as one of the bitterest torments of existence.

And he bewails the fact that he cannot live just for himself, "keep

within himself that secret place of the ego, where none can enter."

"Alas!" said his master, "we are all in a desert." Nobody understands

anyone else and "whatever we attempt, whatever be the impulse of our

heart and the appeal of our lips, we shall always be alone!"

In this gehenna of death, in these nostalgias of the past, in these

trances of eternal isolation, may we not find some relinquishing of

his philosophy? Certainly not, for these contradictions accentuate all

the more the pain of existence and become a new source of suffering.

In any case, Maupassant's pessimism becomes logical in terminating in

pity, like that of Schopenhauer. I know that I am running foul of

certain admirers of the author who do not see any pity in his work,

and it is understood that he is pitiless. But examine his stories more

closely and you will find it revealed in every page, provided you go

to the very bottom of the subject. That is where it exists naturally,

almost against the desire of the writer, who does not arouse pity, nor

teach it.

And, again, if it remains concealed from so many readers, it is

because it has nothing to do with the humanitarian pity retailed by

rhetoricians. It is philosophical and haughty, detached from any

"anthropocentric" characteristics. It is universal suffering that it

covers. And to tell the truth, it is man, the hypocritical and cunning

biped who has the least share in it. Maupassant is helpful to all

those of his fellows who are tortured by physical suffering, social

cruelty and the criminal dangers of life, but he pities them without

caring for them, and his kindness makes distinctions.

On the other hand, the pessimist has all the tenderness of a Buddhist

for animals, whom the gospels despise. When he pities the animals, who

are worth more than ourselves, their executioners, when he pities the

elementary existences, the plants and trees, those exquisite

creations, he unbends and pours out his heart. The humbler the victim,

the more generously does he espouse its suffering. His compassion is

unbounded for all that lives in misery, that is buffeted about without

understanding why, that "suffers and dies without a word." And if he

mourned Miss Harriet, in this unaccustomed outburst of enthusiasm, it

is because, like himself, the poor outcast cherished a similar love

for "all things, all living beings."

Such appears to me to be Maupassant, the novelist, a story-teller, a

writer, and a philosopher by turns. I will add one more trait; he was

devoid of all spirit of criticism. When he essays to demolish a

theory, one is amazed to find in this great, clear writer such lack of

precision of thought, and such weak argument. He wrote the least

eloquent and the most diffuse study of Flaubert, of "that old, dead

master who had won his heart in a manner he could not explain." And,

later, he shows the same weakness in setting forth, as in proving his

theory, in his essay on the "Evolution of the Novel," in the

introduction to Pierre et Jean.

On the other hand, he possesses, above many others, a power of

creating, hidden and inborn, which he exercises almost unconsciously.

Living, spontaneous and yet impassive he is the glorious agent of a

mysterious function, through which he dominated literature and will

continue to dominate it until the day when he desires to become

literary.

He is as big as a tree. The author of "Contemporains" has written that

Maupassant produced novels as an apple-tree yields apples. Never was a

criticism more irrefutable.

On various occasions he was pleased with himself at the fertility that

had developed in him amid those rich soils where a frenzy mounts to

your brain through the senses of smell and sight. He even feels the

influence of the seasons, and writes from Provence: "The sap is rising

in me, it is true. The spring that I find just awakening here stirs

all my plant nature, and causes me to produce those literary fruits

that ripen in me, I know not how."

The "meteor" is at its apogee. All admire and glorify him. It is the

period when Alexandre Dumas, fils, wrote to him thrice: "You are the

only author whose books I await with impatience."

The day came, however, when this dominant impassivity became stirred,

when the marble became flesh by contact with life and suffering. And

the work of the romancer, begun by the novelist, became warm with a

tenderness that is found for the first time in Mont Oriol....

But this sentimental outburst that astonished his admirers quickly

dies down, for the following year, there appeared the sober Pierre et

Jean, that admirable masterpiece of typical reality constructed with

"human leaven," without any admixture of literary seasoning, or

romantic combinations. The reader finds once more in his splendid

integrity the master of yore.

But his heart has been touched, nevertheless. In the books that

follow, his impassivity gives way like an edifice that has been slowly

undermined. With an ever-growing emotion he relates under slight

disguises all his physical distress, all the terrors of his mind and

heart.

What is the secret of this evolution? The perusal of his works gives

us a sufficient insight into it.

The Minstrel has been received in country houses; has been admitted to

"the ladies' apartments." He has given up composing those hurried

tales which made his fame, in order to construct beautiful romances of

love and death.... The story teller has forsaken rustics and peasants,

the comrades of the "Repues franches," for the nobility and the

wealthy. He who formerly frequented Mme. Tellier's establishment now

praises Michèle de Burne.

Ysolde replaces Macette. In "l'Ostel de Courtoisie," Maupassant

cultivates the usual abstractions of the modern Round Table:

Distinction and Moderation; Fervor and Delicacy. We see him inditing

love sonnets and becoming a knight of chivalry. The apologist of

brutal pleasures has become a devotee of the "culte de la Dame."

Everywhere he was sought after, fêted, petted.... But Maupassant never

let himself be carried away by the tinsel of his prestige, nor the

puerility of his enchantment. He despised at heart the puppets that

moved about him as he had formerly despised his short stories and his

petit bourgeois. "Ah," he cries, "I see them, their heads, their

types, their hearts and their souls! What a clinic for a maker of

books! The disgust with which this humanity inspires me makes me

regret still more that I could not become what I should most have

preferred--an Aristophanes, or a Rabelais." And he adds: "The world

makes failures of all scientists, all artists, all intelligences that

it monopolizes. It aborts all sincere sentiment by its manner of

scattering our taste, our curiosity, our desire, the little spark of

genius that burns in us."

Maupassant had to bend to the conditions of his new life. Being well

bred, he respected, outwardly at least, the laws of artificiality and

conventionality, and bowed before the idols of the cave he had

entered....

If Maupassant never became the slave of worldly ideas, the creature of

instinct that was part of his being acquired the refined tastes of the

salons, and the manners of the highest civilization.

The novelist lived for some time in these enchanted and artificial

surroundings, when, suddenly, his malady became aggravated. He was

tortured by neuralgia, and by new mysterious darting pains. His

suffering was so great that he longed to scream. At the same time, his

unhappy heart became softened and he became singularly emotional. His

early faculties were intensified and refined, and in the overtension

of his nerves through suffering his perceptions broadened, and he

gained new ideas of things. This nobler personality Maupassant owes to

those sufferings dear to great souls of whom Daudet speaks. This is

what he says:

"If I could ever tell all, I should utter all the unexplored,

repressed and sad thoughts that I feel in the depths of my being. I

feel them swelling and poisoning me as bile does some people. But if I

could one day give them utterance they would perhaps evaporate, and I

might no longer have anything but a light, joyful heart. Who can say?

Thinking becomes an abominable torture when the brain is an open

wound. I have so many wounds in my head that my ideas cannot stir

without making me long to cry out. Why is it? Why is it? Dumas would

say that my stomach is out of order. I believe, rather, that I have a

poor, proud, shameful heart, that old human heart that people laugh

at, but which is touched, and causes me suffering, and in my head as

well; I have the mind of the Latin race, which is very worn out. And,

again, there are days when I do not think thus, but when I suffer just

the same; for I belong to the family of the thin-skinned. But then I

do not tell it, I do not show it; I conceal it very well, I think.

Without any doubt, I am thought to be one of the most indifferent men

in the world. I am sceptical, which is not the same thing, sceptical

because I am clear-sighted. And my eyes say to my heart, Hide

yourself, old fellow, you are grotesque, and it hides itself."

This describes, in spite of reservation, the struggle between two

conflicting minds, that of yesterday, and that of to-day. But this

sensitiveness that Maupassant seeks to hide, is plain to all

clear-seeing people.

He soon begins to be filled with regrets and forebodings. He has a

desire to look into the unknown, and to search for the inexplicable.

He feels in himself that something is undergoing destruction; he is at

times haunted by the idea of a double. He divines that his malady is

on guard, ready to pounce on him. He seeks to escape it, but on the

mountains, as beside the sea, nature, formerly his refuge, now

terrifies him.

Then his heart expands. All the sentiments that he once reviled, he

now desires to experience. He now exalts in his books the passion of

love, the passion of sacrifice, the passion of suffering; he extols

self-sacrifice, devotion, the irresistible joy of ever giving oneself

up more and more. The hour is late, the night is at hand; weary of

suffering any longer, he hurriedly begs for tenderness and

remembrance.

Occasionally, the Maupassant of former days protests against the

bondage of his new personality; he complains that he no longer feels

absolutely as formerly that he has no contact with anything in the

world, that sweet, strong sensation that gives one strength. "How

sensible I was," he says, "to wall myself round with indifference! If

one did not feel, but only understand, without giving fragments of

oneself to other beings! ... It is strange to suffer from the

emptiness, the nothingness, of this life, when one is resigned, as I

am, to nothingness. But, there, I cannot live without recollections,

and recollections sadden me. I can have no hope, I know, but I feel

obscurely and unceasingly the harm of this statement, and the regret

that it should be so. And the attachments that I have in life act on

my sensibility, which is too human, and not literary enough."

Maupassant's pity now takes a pathetic turn. He no longer despises,

but holds out his hand to those unfortunates who, like himself, are

tormented on the pathway without hope. The tears that he sees flow

make him sad, and his heart bleeds at all the wounds he discovers. He

does not inquire into the quality or origin of the misfortune. He

sympathizes with all suffering; physical suffering, moral suffering,

the suffering caused by treachery, the bitter twilight of wasted

lives....

His mind has also become active. He desires to dabble in science. One

day he studies the Arab mystics, Oriental legends, and the next, he

studies the marine fauna, etc. His perceptions have never been so

clear. His brain is in continual activity. "It is strange," he

acknowledges, "what a different man I am becoming mentally from what I

was formerly. I can see it as I watch myself thinking, discovering,

and developing stories, weighing and analyzing the imaginary beings

that float through my imagination. I take the same enjoyment in

certain dreams, certain exaltations of mind, as I formerly took in

rowing like mad in the sunlight."

For the first time, his assurance as a writer wavers. As his last

volumes show, he is endeavoring to transform, to renew himself. He

acquires a desire to learn the secrets of obscure and precious hearts,

to visit unknown races. He has lost his magnificent serenity....

As his malady began to take a more definite form, he turned his steps

towards the south, only visiting Paris to see his physicians and

publishers. In the old port of Antibes beyond the causeway of Cannes,

his yacht, Bel Ami, which he cherished as a brother, lay at anchor and

awaited him. He took it to the white cities of the Genoese Gulf,

towards the palm trees of Hyères, or the red bay trees of Anthéor.

It was during one of these idle cruises on the open sea, outside of

Agay and Saint-Raphael that he wrote "Sur l'Eau."

It was on the sacred sea of the old poets and philosophers, on the sea

whose voice has rocked the thought of the world, that he cast into the

shadow that long lament, so heartrending and sublime, that posterity

will long shudder at the remembrance of it. The bitter strophes of

this lament seem to be cadenced by the Mediterranean itself and to be

in rhythm, like its melopoeia.

"Sur l'Eau" is the last Will and Testament, the general confession of

Maupassant. To those who come after him he leaves the legacy of his

highest thought; then he says farewell to all that he loved, to

dreams, to starlit nights, and to the breath of roses. "Sur l'Eau" is

the book of modern disenchantment, the faithful mirror of the latest

pessimism. The journal written on board ship, disconnected and hasty,

but so noble in its disorder, has taken a place forever beside Werther

and René, Manfred and Oberman.

He had for a long time, to his sorrow, seen his health failing under

the attacks of an obscure malady which left him with a sense of the

diminution of his powers and a gradual clouding of his intellect.

Symptoms of general paralysis set in, at first mistaken for neurotic

disturbances. He changed greatly. Those who met him as I did, thin and

shivering, on that rainy Sunday when they were celebrating the

inauguration of Flaubert's monument at Rouen would scarcely have

recognized him. I shall never forget, as long as I live, his face

wasted by suffering, his large eyes with a distressed expression,

which emitted dying gleams of protest against a cruel fate....

Maupassant retired to Cannes not far from his mother. He read medical

books and, in spite of what they taught, persisted in attributing his

sufferings to "rheumatism localized in the brain," contracted amid the

fogs on the Seine....

Vainly he endeavored to work, he became gloomy and the idea of suicide

impressed him more and more...

The months passed, however, and in June he was able to go to Divonne

to take a cure. After a very characteristic attack of optimism, he

suddenly appeared at Champel and astonished everyone by his frightful

eccentricities. One evening, however, he felt better, and read to the

poet Dorchain the beginning of his novel "The Angelus," which he

declared would be his masterpiece. When he had finished, he wept. "And

we wept also," writes Dorchain, "at seeing all that now remained of

genius, of tenderness and pity in this soul that would never again be

capable of expressing itself so as to impress other minds.... In his

accent, in his language, in his tears, Maupassant had, I know not

what, of a religious character, which exceeded his horror of life, and

his sombre terror of annihilation."

At the end of September he again visited Cannes, but the fatal day

predicted by the physician was at hand.

After several tragic weeks in which, from instinct, he made a

desperate fight, on the 1st of January, 1892, he felt he was

hopelessly vanquished, and in a moment of supreme clearness of

intellect, like Gerard de Nerval, he attempted suicide. Less fortunate

than the author of Sylvia, he was unsuccessful. But his mind,

henceforth "indifferent to all unhappiness," had entered into eternal

darkness.

He was taken back to Paris and placed in Dr. Meuriot's sanatorium,

where, after eighteen months of mechanical existence, the "meteor"

quietly passed away.

UNE VIE

OR, THE HISTORY OF A HEART

CHAPTER I

THE HOME BY THE SEA

The weather was most distressing. It had rained all night. The roaring

of the overflowing gutters filled the deserted streets, in which the

houses, like sponges, absorbed the humidity, which penetrating to the

interior, made the walls sweat from cellar to garret. Jeanne had left

the convent the day before, free for all time, ready to seize all the

joys of life, of which she had dreamed so long. She was afraid her

father would not set out for the new home in bad weather, and for the

hundredth time since daybreak she examined the horizon. Then she

noticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her travelling

bag. She took from the wall the little card which bore in golden

figures the date of the current year, 1819. Then she marked with a

pencil the first four columns, drawing a line through the name of each

saint up to the 2d of May, the day that she left the convent. A voice

outside the door called "Jeannette." Jeanne replied, "Come in, papa."

And her father entered. Baron Simon-Jacques Le Perthuis des Vauds was

a gentleman of the last century, eccentric and good. An enthusiastic

disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a lover

for nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. Of

aristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, but being a

philosopher by temperament and liberal by education, he execrated

tyranny with an inoffensive and declamatory hatred. His great strength

and his great weakness was his kind-heartedness, which had not arms

enough to caress, to give, to embrace; the benevolence of a god, that

gave freely, without questioning; in a word, a kindness of inertia

that became almost a vice. A man of theory, he thought out a plan of

education for his daughter, to the end that she might become happy,

good, upright and gentle. She had lived at home until the age of

twelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was placed in the

Convent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept her severely secluded,

cloistered, in ignorance of the secrets of life. He wished the Sisters

to restore her to him pure at seventeen years of age, so that he might

imbue her mind with a sort of rational poetry, and by means of the

fields, in the midst of the fruitful earth, unfold her soul, enlighten

her ignorance through the aspect of love in nature, through the simple

tenderness of the animals, through the placid laws of existence. She

was leaving the convent radiant, full of the joy of life, ready for

all the happiness, all the charming incidents which her mind had

pictured in her idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was like

a portrait by Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which seemed to

cast a radiance on her skin, a skin with the faintest tinge of pink,

softened by a light velvety down which could be perceived when the sun

kissed her cheek. Her eyes were an opaque blue, like those of Dutch

porcelain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left nostril and another

on the right of her chin. She was tall, well developed, with willowy

figure. Her clear voice sounded at times a little too sharp, but her

frank, sincere laugh spread joy around her. Often, with a familiar

gesture, she would raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange her

hair.

She ran to her father and embraced him warmly. "Well, are we going to

start?" she said. He smiled, shook his head and said, pointing toward

the window, "How can we travel in such weather?" But she implored in a

cajoling and tender manner, "Oh, papa, do let us start. It will clear

up in the afternoon." "But your mother will never consent to it."

"Yes, I promise you that she will, I will arrange that." "If you

succeed in persuading your mother, I am perfectly willing." In a few

moments she returned from her mother's room, shouting in a voice that

could be heard all through the house, "Papa, papa, mamma is willing.

Have the horses harnessed." The rain was not abating; one might almost

have said that it was raining harder when the carriage drove up to the

door. Jeanne was ready to step in when the baroness came downstairs,

supported on one side by her husband and on the other by a tall

housemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was a Norman woman of

the country of Caux, who looked at least twenty, although she was but

eighteen at the most. She was treated by the family as a second

daughter, for she was Jeanne's foster sister. Her name was Rosalie,

and her chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress, who had

grown enormous in the last few years and also had an affection of the

heart, which kept her complaining continually. The baroness, gasping

from over-exertion, finally reached the doorstep of the old residence,

looked at the court where the water was streaming and remarked: "It

really is not wise." Her husband, always pleasant, replied: "It was

you who desired it, Madame Adelaide." He always preceded her pompous

name of Adelaide with the title madame with an air of half respectful

mockery. Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing all

the springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, while Jeanne and

Rosalie were seated opposite, with their backs to the horses.

Ludivine, the cook, brought a heap of wraps to put over their knees

and two baskets, which were placed under the seats; then she climbed

on the box beside Father Simon, wrapping herself in a great rug which

covered her completely. The porter and his wife came to bid them

good-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the last orders about

the trunks, which were to follow in a wagon. So they started. Father

Simon, the coachman, with head bowed and back bent in the pouring

rain, was completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. The

howling storm beat upon the carriage windows and inundated the

highway.

They drove rapidly to the wharf and continued alongside the line of

tall-masted vessels until they reached the boulevard of Mont Riboudet.

Then they crossed the meadows, where from time to time a drowned

willow, its branches drooping limply, could be faintly distinguished

through the mist of rain. No one spoke. Their minds themselves seemed

to be saturated with moisture like the earth.

The baroness leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes.

The baron looked out with mournful eyes at the monotonous and drenched

landscape. Rosalie, with a parcel on her knee, was dreaming in the

dull reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne, under this downpour, felt

herself revive like a plant that has been shut up and has just been

restored to the air, and so great was her joy that, like foliage, it

sheltered her heart from sadness. Although she did not speak, she

longed to burst out singing, to reach out her hands to catch the rain

that she might drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried along

rapidly by the horses, enjoyed gazing at the desolate landscape and

feeling herself under shelter amid this general inundation. Beneath

the pelting rain the gleaming backs of the two horses emitted a warm

steam.

Little by little the baroness fell asleep, and presently began to

snore sonorously. Her husband leaned over and placed in her hands a

little leather pocketbook.

This awakened her, and she looked at the pocket-book with the stupid,

sleepy look of one suddenly aroused. It fell off her lap and sprang

open and gold and bank bills were scattered on the floor of the

carriage. This roused her completely, and Jeanne gave vent to her

mirth in a merry peal of girlish laughter.

The baron picked up the money and placed it on her knees. "This, my

dear," he said, "is all that is left of my farm at Eletot. I have sold

it--so as to be able to repair the 'Poplars,' where we shall often

live in the future."

She counted six thousand four hundred francs and quietly put them in

her pocket. This was the ninth of thirty-one farms that they had

inherited which they had sold in this way. Nevertheless they still

possessed about twenty thousand livres income annually in land

rentals, which, with proper care, would have yielded about thirty

thousand francs a year.

Living simply as they did, this income would have sufficed had there

not been a bottomless hole always open in their house--kind-hearted

generosity. It dried up the money in their hands as the sun dries the

water in marshes. It flowed, fled, disappeared. How? No one knew.

Frequently one would say to the other, "I don't know how it happens,

but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, and I have bought nothing

of any consequence." This faculty of giving was, however, one of the

greatest pleasures of their life, and they all agreed on this point in

a superb and touching manner.

Jeanne asked her father, "Is it beautiful now, my castle?" The baron

replied, "You shall see, my little girl."

The storm began to abate. The vault of clouds seemed to rise and

heighten and suddenly, through a rift, a long ray of sunshine fell

upon the fields, and presently the clouds separated, showing the blue

firmament, and then, like the tearing of a veil, the opening grew

larger and the beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless, spread over

the world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth like a

happy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or woods they heard

occasionally the bright chirp of a bird as he dried his wings.

Evening was approaching. Everyone in the carriage was asleep except

Jeanne. They stopped to rest and feed the horses. The sun had set. In

the distance bells were heard. They passed a little village as the

inhabitants were lighting their lamps, and the sky became also

illuminated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind a hill,

through the branches of the fir trees, the moon rising, red and full

as if it were torpid with sleep.

The air was so soft that the windows were not closed. Jeanne,

exhausted with dreams and happy visions, was now asleep. Finally they

stopped. Some men and women were standing before the carriage door

with lanterns in their hands. They had arrived. Jeanne, suddenly

awakened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie had

practically to carry the baroness, who was groaning and continually

repeating in a weak little voice, "Oh, my God, my poor children!" She

refused all offers of refreshment, but went to bed and immediately

fell asleep.

Jeanne and her father, the baron, took supper together. They were in

perfect sympathy with each other. Later, seized with a childish joy,

they started on a tour of inspection through the restored manor. It

was one of those high and vast Norman residences that comprise both

farmhouse and castle, built of white stone which had turned gray,

large enough to contain a whole race of people.

An immense hall divided the house from front to rear and a staircase

went up at either side of the entrance, meeting in a bridge on the

first floor. The huge drawing-room was on the ground floor to the

right and was hung with tapestries representing birds and foliage. All

the furniture was covered with fine needlework tapestry illustrating

La Fontaine's fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a chair she

had loved as a child, which pictured the story of "The Fox and the

Stork."

Beside the drawing-room were the library, full of old books, and two

unused rooms; at the left was the dining-room, the laundry, the

kitchen, etc.

A corridor divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten rooms

opening into it. At the end, on the right, was Jeanne's room. She and

her father went in. He had had it all newly done over, using the

furniture and draperies that had been in the storeroom.

There were some very old Flemish tapestries, with their peculiar

looking figures. At sight of her bed, the young girl uttered a scream

of joy. Four large birds carved in oak, black from age and highly

polished, bore up the bed and seemed to be its protectors. On the

sides were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit, and four

finely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capitals, supported a

cornice of cupids with roses intertwined. The tester and the coverlet

were of antique blue silk, embroidered in gold fleur de lys. When

Jeanne had sufficiently admired it, she lifted up the candle to

examine the tapestries and the allegories they represented. They were

mostly conventional subjects, but the last hanging represented a

drama. Near a rabbit, which was still nibbling, a young man lay

stretched out, apparently dead. A young girl, gazing at him, was

plunging a sword into her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turned

black. Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying this

picture, when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal which the

rabbit, had he lived, could have swallowed like a blade of grass; and

yet it was a lion. Then she recognized the story of "Pyramus and

Thisbe," and though she smiled at the simplicity of the design, she

felt happy to have in her room this love adventure which would

continually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and every night this

legendary love would hover about her dreams.

It struck eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne goodnight and retired to

his room. Before retiring, Jeanne cast a last glance round her room

and then regretfully extinguished the candle. Through her window she

could see the bright moonlight bathing the trees and the wonderful

landscape. Presently she arose, opened a window and looked out. The

night was so clear that one could see as plainly as by daylight. She

looked across the park with its two long avenues of very tall poplars

that gave its name to the château and separated it from the two farms

that belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard family, the other

by the Martins. Beyond the enclosure stretched a long, uncultivated

plain, thickly overgrown with rushes, where the breeze whistled day

and night. The land ended abruptly in a steep white cliff three

hundred feet high, with its base in the ocean waves.

Jeanne looked out over the long, undulating surface that seemed to

slumber beneath the heavens. All the fragrance of the earth was in the

night air. The odor of jasmine rose from the lower windows, and light

whiffs of briny air and of seaweed were wafted from the ocean.

Merely to breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the restful calm of the

country was like a soothing bath. She felt as though her heart was

expanding and she began dreaming of love. What was it? She did not

know. She only knew that she would adore him with all her soul

and that he would cherish her with all his strength. They would walk

hand in hand on nights like this, hearing the beating of their hearts,

mingling their love with the sweet simplicity of the summer nights in

such close communion of thought that by the sole power of their

tenderness they would easily penetrate each other's most secret

thoughts. This would continue forever in the calm of an enduring

affection. It seemed to her that she felt him there beside her.

And an unusual sensation came over her. She remained long musing thus,

when suddenly she thought she heard a footstep behind the house. "If

it were he." But it passed on and she felt as if she had been

deceived. The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly bursting aside

the gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the plains, the

ocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb of the sun appeared.

Jeanne felt herself becoming mad with happiness. A delirious joy,

an infinite tenderness at the splendor of nature overcame her

fluttering heart. It was her sun, her dawn! The beginning

of her life! Thoroughly fatigued at last, she flung herself down

and slept till her father called her at eight o'clock. He walked into

the room and proposed to show her the improvements of the castle, of

her castle. The road, called the parish road, connecting the

farms, joined the high road between Havre and Fécamp, a mile and a

half further on.

Jeanne and the baron inspected everything and returned home for

breakfast. When the meal was over, as the baroness had decided that

she would rest, the baron proposed to Jeanne that they should go down

to Yport. They started, and passing through the hamlet of Etouvent,

where the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope by a

winding valley leading down to the sea, they presently perceived the

village of Yport. Women sat in their doorways mending linen; brown

fish-nets were hanging against the doors of the huts, where an entire

family lived in one room. It was a typical little French fishing

village, with all its concomitant odors. To Jeanne it was all like a

scene in a play. On turning a corner they saw before them the

limitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman and another

sailor offered to take them out sailing, repeating his name,

"Lastique, Joséphin Lastique," several times, that they might not

forget it, and the baron promised to remember. They walked home,

chattering like two children, carrying the big fish between them,

Jeanne having pushed her father's walking cane through its gills.

CHAPTER II

HAPPY DAYS

A delightful life commenced for Jeanne, a life in the open air. She

wandered along the roads, or into the little winding valleys, their

sides covered with a fleece of gorse blossoms, the strong sweet odor

of which intoxicated her like the bouquet of wine, while the distant

sound of the waves rolling on the beach seemed like a billow rocking

her spirit.

A love of solitude came upon her in the sweet freshness of this

landscape and in the calm of the rounded horizon, and she would remain

sitting so long on the hill tops that the wild rabbits would bound by

her feet.

She planted memories everywhere, as seeds are cast upon the earth,

memories whose roots hold till death. It seemed to Jeanne that she was

casting a little of her heart into every fold of these valleys. She

became infatuated with sea bathing. When she was well out from shore,

she would float on her back, her arms crossed, her eyes lost in the

profound blue of the sky which was cleft by the flight of a swallow,

or the white silhouette of a seabird.

After these excursions she invariably came back to the castle pale

with hunger, but light, alert, a smile on her lips and her eyes

sparkling with happiness.

The baron on his part was planning great agricultural enterprises.

Occasionally, also, he went out to sea with the sailors of Yport. On

several occasions he went fishing for mackerel and, again, by

moonlight, he would haul in the nets laid the night before. He loved

to hear the masts creak, to breathe in the fresh and whistling gusts

of wind that arose during the night; and after having tacked a long

time to find the buoys, guiding himself by a peak of rocks, the roof

of a belfry or the Fécamp lighthouse, he delighted to remain

motionless beneath the first gleams of the rising sun which made the

slimy backs of the large fan-shaped rays and the fat bellies of the

turbots glisten on the deck of the boat.

At each meal he gave an enthusiastic account of his expeditions, and

the baroness in her turn told how many times she had walked down the

main avenue of poplars.

As she had been advised to take exercise she made a business of

walking, beginning as soon as the air grew warm. Leaning upon

Rosalie's arm and dragging her left foot, which was rather heavier

than the right, she wandered interminably up and down from the house

to the edge of the wood, sitting down for five minutes at either end.

The walking was resumed in the afternoon. A physician, consulted ten

years before, had spoken of hypertrophy because she had suffered from

suffocation. Ever since, this word had been used to describe the

ailment of the baroness. The baron would say "my wife's hypertrophy"

and Jeanne "mamma's hypertrophy" as they would have spoken of her hat,

her dress, or her umbrella. She had been very pretty in her youth and

slim as a reed. Now she had grown older, stouter, but she still

remained poetical, having always retained the impression of "Corinne,"

which she had read as a girl. She read all the sentimental love

stories it was possible to collect, and her thoughts wandered among

tender adventures in which she always figured as the heroine. Her new

home was infinitely pleasing to her because it formed such a beautiful

framework for the romance of her soul, the surrounding woods, the

waste land, and the proximity of the ocean recalling to her mind the

novels of Sir Walter Scott, which she had been devouring for some

months. On rainy days she remained shut up in her room, sending

Rosalie in a special manner for the drawer containing her "souvenirs,"

which meant to the baroness all her old private and family letters.

Occasionally, Jeanne replaced Rosalie in the walks with her mother,

and she listened eagerly to the tales of the latter's childhood. The

young girl saw herself in all these romantic stories, and was

astonished at the similarity of ideas and desires; each heart imagines

itself to have been the first to tremble at those very sensations that

awakened the hearts of the first beings, and that will awaken the

hearts of the last.

One afternoon as the baroness and Jeanne were resting on the beach at

the end of the walk, a stout priest who was moving in their direction

greeted them with a bow, while still at a distance. He bowed when

within three feet and, assuming a smiling air, cried: "Well, Madame la

Baronne, how are you?" It was the village priest. The baroness seldom

went to church, though she liked priests, from a sort of religious

instinct peculiar to women. She had, in fact, entirely forgotten the

Abbé Picot, her priest, and blushed as she saw him. She made apologies

for not having prepared for his visit, but the good man was not at all

embarrassed. He looked at Jeanne, complimented her on her appearance

and sat down, placing his three-cornered hat on his knees. He was very

stout, very red, and perspired profusely. He drew from his pocket

every moment an enormous checked handkerchief and passed it over his

face and neck, but hardly was the task completed when necessity forced

him to repeat the process. He was a typical country priest, talkative

and kindly.

Presently the baron appeared. He was very friendly to the abbé and

invited him to dinner. The priest was well versed in the art of being

pleasant, thanks to the unconscious astuteness which the guiding of

souls gives to the most mediocre of men who are called by the chance

of events to exercise a power over their fellows. Toward dessert he

became quite merry, with the gaiety that follows a pleasant meal, and

as if struck by an idea he said: "I have a new parishioner whom I must

present to you, Monsieur le Vicomte de Lamare." The baroness, who was

at home in heraldry, inquired if he was of the family of Lamares of

Eure. The priest answered, "Yes, madame, he is the son of Vicomte Jean

de Lamare, who died last year." After this, the baroness, who loved

the nobility above all other things, inquired the history of the young

vicomte. He had paid his father's debts, sold the family castle, made

his home on one of the three farms which he owned in the town of

Etouvent. These estates brought him in an income of five or six

thousand livres. The vicomte was economical and lived in this modest

manner for two or three years, so that he might save enough to cut a

figure in society, and to marry advantageously, without contracting

debts or mortgaging his farms. The priest added, "He is a very

charming young man, so steady and quiet, though there is very little

to amuse him in the country." The baron said, "Bring him in to see us,

Monsieur l'Abbé, it will be a distraction for him occasionally." After

the coffee the baron and the priest took a turn about the grounds and

then returned to say good-night to the ladies.

CHAPTER III

M. DE LAMARE

The following Sunday the baroness and Jeanne went to mass, prompted by

a feeling of respect for their pastor, and after service waited to see

the priest and invite him to luncheon the following Thursday. He came

out of the sacristy leaning familiarly on the arm of a tall young man.

As soon as he perceived the ladies, he exclaimed:

"How fortunate! Allow me, baroness and Mlle. Jeanne, to present to you

your neighbor, M. le Vicomte de Lamare."

The vicomte said he had long desired to make their acquaintance, and

began to converse in a well-bred manner. He had a face of which women

dream and that men dislike. His black, wavy hair shaded a smooth,

sunburnt forehead, and two large straight eyebrows, that looked almost

artificial, cast a deep and tender shadow over his dark eyes, the

whites of which had a bluish tinge.

His long, thick eyelashes accentuated the passionate eloquence of his

expression which wrought havoc in the drawing-rooms of society, and

made peasant girls carrying baskets turn round to look at him. The

languorous fascination of his glance impressed one with the depth of

his thoughts and lent weight to his slightest words. His beard, fine

and glossy, concealed a somewhat heavy jaw.

Two days later, M. de Lamare made his first call, just as they were

discussing the best place for a new rustic bench. The vicomte was

consulted and agreed with the baroness, who differed from her husband.

M. de Lamare expatiated on the picturesqueness of the country and from

time to time, as if by chance, his eyes met those of Jeanne, and she

felt a strange sensation at the quickly averted glance which betrayed

tender admiration and an awakened sympathy.

M. de Lamare's father, who had died the preceding year, had known an

intimate friend of the baroness's father, M. Cultaux, and this fact

led to an endless conversation about family, relations, dates, etc.,

and names heard in her childhood were recalled, and led to

reminiscences.

The baron, whose nature was rather uncultivated, and whose beliefs and

prejudices were not those of his class, knew little about the

neighboring families, and inquired about them from the vicomte, who

responded:

"Oh, there are very few of the nobility in the district," just as he

might have said, "there are very few rabbits on the hills," and he

began to particularize: There was the Marquis de Coutelier, a sort of

leader of Norman aristocracy, Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Briseville,

people of excellent stock, but living to themselves, and the Comte de

Fourville, a kind of ogre, who was said to have made his wife die of

sorrow, and who lived as a huntsman in his château of La Vrillette,

built on a pond. There were a few parvenus among them who had bought

properties here and there, but the vicomte did not know them.

As he left, his last glance was for Jeanne, as if it were a special

tender and cordial farewell. The baroness was delighted with him, and

the baron said: "Yes, indeed, he is a gentleman." And he was invited

to dinner the following week, and from that time came regularly.

He generally arrived about four o'clock in the afternoon, went to join

the baroness in "her avenue," and offered her his arm while she took

her "exercise," as she called her daily walks. When Jeanne was at home

she would walk on the other side of her mother, supporting her, and

all three would walk slowly back and forth from one end of the avenue

to the other. He seldom addressed Jeanne directly, but his eye

frequently met hers.

He went to Yport several times with Jeanne and the baron. One evening,

when they were on the beach, Père Lastique accosted him, and without

removing his pipe, the absence of which would possibly have been more

remarkable than the loss of his nose, he said:

"With this wind, m'sieu le baron, we could easily go to Étretat and

back to-morrow."

Jeanne clasped her hands imploringly:

"Oh, papa, let us do it!"

The baron turned to M. de Lamare:

"Will you join us, vicomte? We can take breakfast down there."

And the matter was decided at once. From daybreak Jeanne was up and

waiting for her father, who dressed more slowly. They walked in the

dew across the level and then through the wood vibrant with the

singing of birds. The vicomte and Père Lastique were seated on a

capstan.

Two other sailors helped to shove off the boat from shore, which was

not easy on the shingly beach. Once the boat was afloat, they all took

their seats, and the two sailors who remained on shore shoved it off.

A light, steady breeze was blowing from the ocean and they hoisted the

sail, veered a little, and then sailed along smoothly with scarcely

any motion. To landward the high cliff at the right cast a shadow on

the water at its base, and patches of sunlit grass here and there

varied its monotonous whiteness. Yonder, behind them, brown sails were

coming out of the white harbor of Fécamp, and ahead of them they saw a

rock of curious shape, rounded, with gaps in it looking something like

an immense elephant with its trunk in the water; it was the little

port of Étretat.

Jeanne, a little dizzy from the motion of the waves, held the side of

the boat with one hand as she looked out into the distance. It seemed

to her as if only three things in the world were really beautiful:

light, space, water.

No one spoke. Père Lastique, who was at the tiller, took a pull every

now and then from a bottle hidden under the seat; and he smoked a

short pipe which seemed inextinguishable, although he never seemed to

relight it or refill it.

The baron, seated in the bow looked after the sail. Jeanne and the

vicomte seemed a little embarrassed at being seated side by side. Some

unknown power seemed to make their glances meet whenever they raised

their eyes; between them there existed already that subtle and vague

sympathy which arises so rapidly between two young people when the

young man is good looking and the girl is pretty. They were happy in

each other's society, perhaps because they were thinking of each

other. The rising sun was beginning to pierce through the slight mist,

and as its beams grew stronger, they were reflected on the smooth

surface of the sea as in a mirror.

"How beautiful!" murmured Jeanne, with emotion.

"Beautiful indeed!" answered the vicomte. The serene beauty of the

morning awakened an echo in their hearts.

And all at once they saw the great arches of Étretat, like two

supports of a cliff standing in the sea high enough for vessels to

pass under them; while a sharp-pointed white rock rose in front of the

first arch. They reached shore, and the baron got out first to make

fast the boat, while the vicomte lifted Jeanne ashore so that she

should not wet her feet. Then they walked up the shingly beach side by

side, and they overheard Père Lastique say to the baron, "My! but they

would make a pretty couple!"

They took breakfast in a little inn near the beach, and while the

ocean had lulled their thoughts and made them silent, the breakfast

table had the opposite effect, and they chattered like children on a

vacation. The slightest thing gave rise to laughter.

Père Lastique, on taking his place at table, carefully hid his lighted

pipe in his cap. That made them laugh. A fly, attracted no doubt by

his red nose, persistently alighted on it, and each time it did so

they burst into laughter. Finally the old man could stand it no

longer, and murmured: "It is devilishly persistent!" whereupon Jeanne

and the vicomte laughed till they cried.

After breakfast Jeanne suggested that they should take a walk. The

vicomte rose, but the baron preferred to bask in the sun on the beach.

"Go on, my children, you will find me here in an hour."

They walked straight ahead of them, passing by several cottages and

finally by a small château resembling a large farm, and found

themselves in an open valley that extended for some distance. They now

had a wild longing to run at large in the fields. Jeanne seemed to

have a humming in her ears from all the new and rapidly changing

sensations she had experienced. The burning rays of the sun fell on

them. On both sides of the road the crops were bending over from the

heat. The grasshoppers, as numerous as the blades of grass, were

uttering their thin, shrill cry.

Perceiving a wood a little further on to the right, they walked over

to it. They saw a narrow path between two hedges shaded by tall trees

which shut out the sun. A sort of moist freshness in the air was

perceptible, giving them a sensation of chilliness. There was no

grass, owing to the lack of sunlight, but the ground was covered with

a carpet of moss.

"See, we can sit down there a little while," she said.

They sat down and looked about them at the numerous forms of life that

were in the air and on the ground at their feet, for a ray of sunlight

penetrating the dense foliage brought them into its light.

"How beautiful it is here! How lovely it is in the country! There are

moments when I should like to be a fly or a butterfly and hide in the

flowers," said Jeanne with emotion.

They spoke in low tones as one does in exchanging confidences, telling

of their daily lives and of their tastes, and declaring that they were

already disgusted with the world, tired of its useless monotony; it

was always the same thing; there was no truth, no sincerity in it.

The world! She would gladly have made its acquaintance; but she felt

convinced beforehand that it was not equal to a country life, and the

more their hearts seemed to be in sympathy, the more ceremonious they

became, the more frequently their glances met and blended smiling; and

it seemed that a new feeling of benevolence was awakened in them, a

wider affection, an interest in a thousand things of which they had

never hitherto thought.

They wended their way back, but the baron had already set off on foot

for the Chambre aux Demoiselles, a grotto in a cleft at the summit of

one of the cliffs, and they waited for him at the inn. He did not

return until five in the evening after a long walk along the cliffs.

They got into the boat, started off smoothly with the wind at their

backs, scarcely seeming to make any headway. The breeze was irregular,

at one moment filling the sail and then letting it flap idly along the

mast. The sea seemed opaque and lifeless, and the sun was slowly

approaching the horizon. The lulling motion of the sea had made them

silent again. Presently Jeanne said, "How I should love to travel!"

"Yes, but it is tiresome to travel alone; there should be at least

two, to exchange ideas," answered the vicomte. She reflected a moment.

"That is true--I like to walk alone, however--how pleasant it is to

dream all alone----"

He gazed at her intently.

"Two can dream as well as one."

She lowered her eyes. Was it a hint? Possibly. She looked out at the

horizon as if to discover something beyond it, and then said slowly:

"I should like to go to Italy--and Greece--ah, yes, Greece--and to

Corsica--it must be so wild and so beautiful!"

He preferred Switzerland on account of its chalets and its lakes.

"No," said she, "I like new countries like Corsica, or very old

countries full of souvenirs, like Greece. It must be delightful to

find the traces of those peoples whose history we have known since

childhood, to see places where great deeds were accomplished."

The vicomte, less enthusiastic, exclaimed: "As for me, England

attracts me very much; there is so much to be learned there."

Then they talked about the world in general, discussing the

attractions of each country from the poles to the equator, enthusing

over imaginary scenes and the peculiar manners of certain peoples like

the Chinese and the Lapps; but they arrived at the conclusion that the

most beautiful country in the world was France, with its temperate

climate, cool in summer, mild in winter, its rich soil, its green

forests, its worship of the fine arts which existed nowhere else since

the glorious centuries of Athens. Then they were silent. The setting

sun left a wide dazzling train of light which extended from the

horizon to the edge of their boat. The wind subsided, the ripples

disappeared, and the motionless sail was red in the light of the dying

day. A limitless calm seemed to settle down on space and make a

silence amid this conjunction of elements; and by degrees the sun

slowly sank into the ocean.

Then a fresh breeze seemed to arise, a little shiver went over the

surface of the water, as if the engulfed orb cast a sigh of

satisfaction across the world. The twilight was short, night fell with

its myriad stars. Père Lastique took the oars, and they saw that the

sea was phosphorescent. Jeanne and the vicomte, side by side, watched

the fitful gleams in the wake of the boat. They were hardly thinking,

but simply gazing vaguely, breathing in the beauty of the evening in a

state of delicious contentment; Jeanne had one hand on the seat and

her neighbor's finger touched it as if by accident; she did not move;

she was surprised, happy, though embarrassed at this slight contact.

When she reached home that evening and went to her room, she felt

strangely disturbed, and so affected that the slightest thing impelled

her to weep. She looked at her clock, imagining that the little bee on

the pendulum was beating like a heart, the heart of a friend; that it

was aware of her whole life, that with its quick, regular tickings it

would accompany her whole life; and she stopped the golden fly to

press a kiss on its wings. She would have kissed anything, no matter

what. She remembered having hidden one of her old dolls of former days

at the bottom of a drawer; she looked for it, took it out, and was

delighted to see it again, as people are to see loved friends; and

pressing it to her heart, she covered its painted cheeks and curly wig

with kisses. And as she held it in her arms, she thought:

Can he be the husband promised through a thousand secret

voices, whom a superlatively good Providence had thus thrown across

her path? Was he, indeed, the being created for her--the being to whom

she would devote her existence? Were they the two predestined beings

whose affection, blending in one, would beget love?

She did not as yet feel that tumultuous emotion, that mad enchantment,

those deep stirrings which she thought were essential to the tender

passion; but it seemed to her she was beginning to fall in love, for

she sometimes felt a sudden faintness when she thought of him, and she

thought of him incessantly. His presence stirred her heart; she

blushed and grew pale when their eyes met, and trembled at the sound

of his voice.

From day to day the longing for love increased. She consulted the

marguerites, the clouds, and coins which she tossed in the air.

One day her father said to her:

"Make yourself look pretty to-morrow morning."

"Why, papa?"

"That is a secret," he replied.

And when she came downstairs the following morning, looking fresh and

sweet in a pretty light dress, she found the drawing-room table

covered with boxes of bonbons, and on a chair an immense bouquet.

A covered wagon drove into the courtyard bearing the inscription,

"Lerat, Confectioner, Fécamp; Wedding Breakfasts," and from the back

of the wagon Ludivine and a kitchen helper were taking out large flat

baskets which emitted an appetizing odor.

The Vicomte de Lamare appeared on the scene, his trousers were

strapped down under his dainty boots of patent leather, which made his

feet appear smaller. His long frock coat, tight at the waist line, was

open at the bosom showing the lace of his ruffle, and a fine neckcloth

wound several times round his neck obliged him to hold erect his

handsome brown head, with its air of serious distinction. Jeanne, in

astonishment, looked at him as though she had never seen him before.

She thought he looked the grand seigneur from his head to his feet.

He bowed and said, smiling:

"Well, comrade, are you ready?"

"But what is it? What is going on?" she stammered.

"You will know presently," said the baron.

The carriage drove up to the door, and Madame Adelaide, in festal

array, descended the staircase, leaning on the arm of Rosalie, who was

so much affected at the sight of M. de Lamare's elegant appearance

that the baron whispered:

"I say, vicomte, I think our maid admires you."

The vicomte blushed up to his ears, pretended not to have heard and,

taking up the enormous bouquet, handed it to Jeanne. She accepted it,

more astonished than ever. They all four got into the carriage, and

Ludivine, who brought a cup of bouillon to the baroness to sustain her

strength, said: "Truly, madame, one would say it was a wedding!"

They alighted as soon as they entered Yport, and as they walked

through the village the sailors, in their new clothes, still showing

the creases, came out of their homes, and shaking hands with the

baron, followed the party as if it were a procession. The vicomte, who

had offered his arm to Jeanne, walked with her at the head.

When they reached the church they stopped, and an acolyte appeared

holding upright the large silver crucifix, followed by another boy in

red and white, who bore a chalice containing holy water.

Then came three old cantors, one of them limping; then the trumpet

("serpent"), and last, the curé with his gold embroidered stole. He

smiled and nodded a greeting; then, with his eyes half closed, his

lips moving in prayer, his beretta well over his forehead, he followed

his surpliced bodyguard, walking in the direction of the sea.

On the beach a crowd was standing around a new boat wreathed with

flowers. Its mast, sail and ropes were covered with long streamers of

ribbon that floated in the breeze, and the name, "Jeanne," was painted

in gold letters on the stern.

Père Lastique, the proprietor of this boat, built with the baron's

money, advanced to meet the procession. All the men, simultaneously,

took off their hats, and a row of pious persons wearing long black

cloaks falling in large folds from their shoulders, knelt down in a

circle at sight of the crucifix.

The curé walked, with an acolyte on either side of him, to one end of

the boat, while at the other end, the three old cantors, in their

white surplices, with a serious air and their eyes fixed on the

psalter, sang at the top of their voices in the clear morning air.

Each time they stopped to take breath, the "serpent" continued its

bellowing alone, and as he puffed out his cheeks the musician's little

gray eyes disappeared, and the skin of his forehead and neck seemed to

distend.

The motionless, transparent sea seemed to be taking part meditatively

in the baptism of this boat, rolling its tiny waves, no higher than a

finger, with the faint sound of a rake on the shingle. And the big

white gulls, with their wings unfurled, circled about in the blue

heavens, flying off and then coming back in a curve above the heads of

the kneeling crowd, as if to see what they were doing.

The singing ceased after an Amen that lasted five minutes; and the

priest, in an unctuous voice, murmured some Latin words, of which one

could hear only the sonorous endings. He then walked round the boat,

sprinkling it with holy water, and next began to murmur the "Oremus,"

standing alongside the boat opposite the sponsors, who remained

motionless, hand in hand.

The vicomte had the usual grave expression on his handsome face, but

Jeanne, choking with a sudden emotion, and on the verge of fainting,

began to tremble so violently that her teeth chattered. The dream that

had haunted her for some time was suddenly beginning, as if in a kind

of hallucination, to take the appearance of reality. They had spoken

of a wedding, a priest was present, blessing them; men in surplices

were singing psalms; was it not she whom they were giving in marriage?

Did her fingers send out an electric shock, did the emotion of her

heart follow the course of her veins until it reached the heart of her

companion? Did he understand, did he guess, was he, like herself,

pervaded by a sort of intoxication of love? Or else, did he know by

experience, alone, that no woman could resist him? She suddenly

noticed that he was squeezing her hand, gently at first, and then

tighter, tighter, till he almost crushed it. And without moving a

muscle of his face, without anyone perceiving it, he said--yes, he

certainly said:

"Oh, Jeanne, if you would consent, this would be our betrothal."

She lowered her head very slowly, perhaps meaning it for "yes." And

the priest, who was still sprinkling the holy water, sprinkled some on

their fingers.

The ceremony was over. The women rose. The return was unceremonious.

The crucifix had lost its dignity in the hands of the acolyte, who

walked rapidly, the crucifix swaying to right and left, or bending

forward as though it would fall. The priest, who was not praying now,

walked hurriedly behind them; the cantors and the musician with the

"serpent" had disappeared by a narrow street, so as to get off their

surplices without delay; and the sailors hurried along in groups. One

thought prompted their haste, and made their mouths water.

A good breakfast was awaiting them at "The Poplars."

The large table was set in the courtyard, under the apple trees.

Sixty people sat down to table, sailors and peasants. The baroness in

the middle, with a priest at either side of her, one from Yport, and

the other belonging to "The Poplars." The baron seated opposite her on

the other side of the table, the mayor on one side of him, and his

wife, a thin peasant woman, already aging, who kept smiling and bowing

to all around her, on the other.

Jeanne, seated beside her co-sponsor, was in a sea of happiness. She

saw nothing, knew nothing, and remained silent, her mind bewildered

with joy. Presently she said:

"What is your Christian name?"

"Julien," he replied. "Did you not know?"

But she made no reply, thinking to herself:

"How often I shall repeat that name!"

When the feast was over, the courtyard was given up to the sailors,

and the others went over to the other side of the château. The

baroness began to take her exercise, leaning on the arm of the baron

and accompanied by the two priests. Jeanne and Julien went toward the

wood and walked along one of the mossy paths. Suddenly seizing her

hands, the vicomte said:

"Tell me, will you be my wife?"

She lowered her head, and as he stammered: "Answer me, I implore you!"

she raised her eyes to his timidly, and he read his answer there.

CHAPTER IV

MARRIAGE AND DISILLUSION

The baron, one morning, entered Jeanne's room before she was up, and

sitting down at the foot of her bed, said:

"M. le Vicomte de Lamare has asked us for your hand in marriage."

She wanted to hide her face under the sheets.

Her father continued:

"We have postponed our answer for the present."

She gasped, choking with emotion. At the end of a minute the baron,

smiling, added:

"We did not wish to do anything without consulting you. Your mother

and I are not opposed to this marriage, but we would not seek to

influence you. You are much richer than he is; but, when it is a

question of the happiness of a life, one should not think too much

about money. He has no relations left. If you marry him, then, it

would be as if a son should come into our family; if it were anyone

else, it would be you, our daughter, who would go among strangers. The

young fellow pleases us. Would he please you?"

She stammered, blushing up to the roots of her hair:

"I am willing, papa."

And the father, looking into her eyes and still smiling, murmured:

"I half suspected it, young lady."

She lived till evening in a condition of exhilaration, not knowing

what she was doing, mechanically thinking of one thing by mistake for

another, and with a feeling of weariness, although she had not walked

at all.

Toward six o'clock, as she was sitting with her mother under the plane

tree, the vicomte appeared.

Jeanne's heart began to throb wildly. The young man approached them

apparently without any emotion. When he was close beside them, he took

the baroness' hand and kissed her fingers, then raising to his lips

the trembling hand of the young girl, he imprinted upon it a long,

tender and grateful kiss.

And the radiant season of betrothal commenced. They would chat

together alone in the corner of the parlor, or else seated on the moss

at the end of the wood overlooking the plain. Sometimes they walked in

Little Mother's Avenue; he, talking of the future, she, with her eyes

cast down, looking at the dusty footprints of the baroness.

Once the matter was decided, they desired to waste no time in

preliminaries. It was, therefore, decided that the ceremony should

take place in six weeks, on the fifteenth of August; and that the

bride and groom should set out immediately on their wedding journey.

Jeanne, on being consulted as to which country she would like to

visit, decided on Corsica where they could be more alone than in the

cities of Italy.

They awaited the moment appointed for their marriage without too great

impatience, but enfolded, lost in a delicious affection, expressed in

the exquisite charm of insignificant caresses, pressure of hands, long

passionate glances in which their souls seemed to blend; and, vaguely

tortured by an uncertain longing for they knew not what.

They decided to invite no one to the wedding except Aunt Lison, the

baron's sister, who boarded in a convent at Versailles. After the

death of their father, the baroness wished to keep her sister with

her. But the old maid, possessed by the idea that she was in every

one's way, was useless, and a nuisance, retired into one of those

religious houses that rent apartments to people that live a sad and

lonely existence. She came from time to time to pass a month or two

with her family.

She was a little woman of few words, who always kept in the

background, appeared only at mealtimes, and then retired to her room

where she remained shut in.

She looked like a kind old lady, though she was only forty-two, and

had a sad, gentle expression. She was never made much of by her family

as a child, being neither pretty nor boisterous, she was never petted,

and she would stay quietly and gently in a corner. She had been

neglected ever since. As a young girl nobody paid any attention to

her. She was something like a shadow, or a familiar object, a living

piece of furniture that one is accustomed to see every day, but about

which one does not trouble oneself.

Her sister, from long habit, looked upon her as a failure, an

altogether insignificant being. They treated her with careless

familiarity which concealed a sort of contemptuous kindness. She

called herself Lise, and seemed embarrassed at this frivolous youthful

name. When they saw that she probably would not marry, they changed it

from Lise to Lison, and since Jeanne's birth, she had become "Aunt

Lison," a poor relation, very neat, frightfully timid, even with her

sister and her brother-in-law, who loved her, but with an uncertain

affection verging on indifference, with an unconscious compassion and

a natural benevolence.

Sometimes, when the baroness talked of far away things that happened

in her youth, she would say, in order to fix a date: "It was the time

that Lison had that attack."

They never said more than that; and this "attack" remained shrouded,

as in a mist.

One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown herself into the

water, no one knew why. Nothing in her life, her manner, gave any

intimation of this seizure. They fished her out half dead, and her

parents, raising their hands in horror, instead of seeking the

mysterious cause of this action, had contented themselves with calling

it "that attack," as if they were talking of the accident that

happened to the horse "Coco," who had broken his leg a short time

before in a ditch, and whom they had been obliged to kill.

From that time Lise, presently Lison, was considered feeble-minded.

The gentle contempt which she inspired in her relations gradually made

its way into the minds of all those who surrounded her. Little Jeanne

herself, with the natural instinct of children, took no notice of her,

never went up to kiss her good-night, never went into her room. Good

Rosalie, alone, who gave the room all the necessary attention, seemed

to know where it was situated.

When Aunt Lison entered the dining-room for breakfast, the little one

would go up to her from habit and hold up her forehead to be kissed;

that was all.

If anyone wished to speak to her, they sent a servant to call her, and

if she was not there, they did not bother about her, never thought of

her, never thought of troubling themselves so much as to say: "Why, I

have not seen Aunt Lison this morning!"

When they said "Aunt Lison," these two words awakened no feeling of

affection in anyone's mind. It was as if one had said: "The coffee

pot, or the sugar bowl."

She always walked with little, quick, silent steps, never made a

noise, never knocking up against anything; and seemed to communicate

to surrounding objects the faculty of not making any sound. Her hands

seemed to be made of a kind of wadding, she handled everything so

lightly and delicately.

She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the idea of this

marriage. She brought a quantity of presents which, as they came from

her, remained almost unnoticed. On the following day they had

forgotten she was there at all.

But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and she never took

her eyes off the engaged couple. She interested herself in Jeanne's

trousseau with a singular eagerness, a feverish activity, working like

a simple seamstress in her room, where no one came to visit her.

She was continually presenting the baroness with handkerchiefs she had

hemmed herself, towels on which she had embroidered a monogram, saying

as she did so: "Is that all right, Adelaide?" And little mother, as

she carelessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not give

yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison."

One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warm

day, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem to

move, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetry

of one's soul. The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into the

quiet drawing-room. The baroness and her husband were playing cards by

the light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sitting beside them knitting;

while the young people, leaning on the window sill, were gazing out at

the moonlit garden.

The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the lawn which

extended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as the dark wood.

Attracted by the tender charm of the night, and by this misty

illumination that lighted up the trees and the bushes, Jeanne turned

toward her parents and said: "Little father, we are going to take a

short stroll on the grass in front of the house."

The baron replied, without looking up: "Go, my children," and

continued his game.

They went out and began to walk slowly along the moonlit lawn as far

as the little wood at the end. The hour grew late and they did not

think of going in. The baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, she

said:

"We must call the lovers in."

The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden where the two forms

were wandering slowly.

"Let them alone," he said; "it is so delicious outside! Lison will

wait for them, will you not, Lison?"

The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her timid voice:

"Certainly, I will wait for them."

Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary himself from the

heat of the day.

"I am going to bed, too," he said, and went up with his wife.

Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the arm of the chair

her canvas with the wool and the knitting needles, she went over and

leaned on the window sill and gazed out at the night.

The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between the house and

the wood. They squeezed each other's fingers without speaking, as

though they had left their bodies and formed part of this visible

poetry that exhaled from the earth.

All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette of

the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her.

"See," she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us."

The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent tone without

thinking:

"Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us."

And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to love each other.

But the dew was falling fast, and the dampness made them shiver a

little.

"Let us go in now," said Jeanne. And they went into the house.

When they entered the drawing-room, Aunt Lison had gone back to her

work. Her head was bent over her work, and her fingers were trembling

as if she were very tired.

"It is time to go to bed, aunt," said Jeanne, approaching her.

Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if she had been

crying. The young people did not notice it; but suddenly M. de Lamare

perceived that Jeanne's thin shoes were covered with dew. He was

worried, and asked tenderly:

"Are not your dear little feet cold?"

All at once the old lady's hands shook so violently that she let fall

her knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob

convulsively.

The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, without moving.

Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt's hands away

from her face, said in perplexity:

"Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?"

Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her whole body

shaking with sorrow, replied:

"It was when he asked you--are not your--your--dear little feet

cold?--no one ever said such things to me--to me--never--never----"

Jeanne, surprised and compassionate, could still hardly help laughing

at the idea of an admirer showing tender solicitude for Lison; and the

vicomte had turned away to conceal his mirth.

But the aunt suddenly rose, laying her ball of wool on the floor and

her knitting in the chair, and fled to her room, feeling her way up

the dark staircase.

Left alone, the young people looked at one another, amused and

saddened. Jeanne murmured:

"Poor aunt!" Julien replied. "She must be a little crazy this

evening."

They held each other's hands and presently, gently, very gently, they

exchanged their first kiss, and by the following day had forgotten all

about Aunt Lison's tears.

The two weeks preceding the wedding found Jeanne very calm, as though

she were weary of tender emotions. She had no time for reflection on

the morning of the eventful day. She was only conscious of a feeling

as if her flesh, her bones and her blood had all melted beneath her

skin, and on taking hold of anything, she noticed that her fingers

trembled.

She did not regain her self-possession until she was in the chancel of

the church during the marriage ceremony.

Married! So she was married! All that had occurred since daybreak

seemed to her a dream, a waking dream. There are such moments, when

all appears changed around us; even our motions seem to have a new

meaning; even the hours of the day, which seem to be out of their

usual time. She felt bewildered, above all else, bewildered. Last

evening nothing had as yet been changed in her life; the constant hope

of her life seemed only nearer, almost within reach. She had gone to

rest a young girl; she was now a married woman. She had crossed that

boundary that seems to conceal the future with all its joys, its

dreams of happiness. She felt as though a door had opened in front of

her; she was about to enter into the fulfillment of her expectations.

When they appeared on the threshold of the church after the ceremony,

a terrific noise caused the bride to start in terror, and the baroness

to scream; it was a rifle salute given by the peasants, and the firing

did not cease until they reached "The Poplars."

After a collation served for the family, the family chaplain, and the

priest from Yport, the mayor and the witnesses, who were some of the

large farmers of the district, they all walked in the garden. On the

other side of the château one could hear the boisterous mirth of the

peasants, who were drinking cider beneath the apple trees. The whole

countryside, dressed in their best, filled the courtyard.

Jeanne and Julien walked through the copse and then up the slope and,

without speaking, gazed out at the sea. The air was cool, although it

was the middle of August; the wind was from the north, and the sun

blazed down unpityingly from the blue sky. The young people sought a

more sheltered spot, and crossing the plain, they turned to the right,

toward the rolling and wooded valley that leads to Yport. As soon as

they reached the trees the air was still, and they left the road and

took a narrow path beneath the trees, where they could scarcely walk

abreast.

Jeanne felt an arm passed gently round her waist. She said nothing,

her breath came quick, her heart beat fast. Some low branches caressed

their hair, as they bent to pass under them. She picked a leaf; two

ladybirds were concealed beneath it, like two delicate red shells.

"Look, a little family," she said innocently, and feeling a little

more confidence.

Julien placed his mouth to her ear, and whispered: "This evening you

will be my wife."

Although she had learned many things during her sojourn in the

country, she dreamed of nothing as yet but the poetry of love, and was

surprised. His wife? Was she not that already?

Then he began to kiss her temples and neck, little light kisses.

Startled each time afresh by these masculine kisses to which she was

not accustomed, she instinctively turned away her head to avoid them,

though they delighted her. But they had come to the edge of the wood.

She stopped, embarrassed at being so far from home. What would they

think?

"Let us go home," she said.

He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned round they

stood face to face, so close that they could feel each other's breath

on their faces. They gazed deep into one another's eyes with that gaze

in which two souls seem to blend. They sought the impenetrable unknown

of each other's being. They sought to fathom one another, mutely and

persistently. What would they be to one another? What would this life

be that they were about to begin together? What joys, what happiness,

or what disillusions were they preparing in this long, indissoluble

tête-à-tête of marriage? And it seemed to them as if they had never

yet seen each other.

Suddenly, Julien, placing his two hands on his wife's shoulders,

kissed her full on the lips as she had never before been kissed. The

kiss, penetrating as it did her very blood and marrow, gave her such a

mysterious shock that she pushed Julien wildly away with her two arms,

almost falling backward as she did so.

"Let us go away, let us go away," she faltered.

He did not reply, but took both her hands and held them in his. They

walked home in silence, and the rest of the afternoon seemed long. The

dinner was simple and did not last long, contrary to the usual Norman

custom. A sort of embarrassment seemed to paralyze the guests. The two

priests, the mayor, and the four farmers invited, alone betrayed a

little of that broad mirth that is supposed to accompany weddings.

They had apparently forgotten how to laugh, when a remark of the

mayor's woke them up. It was about nine o'clock; coffee was about to

be served. Outside, under the apple-trees of the first court, the bal

champêtre was beginning, and through the open window one could see all

that was going on. Lanterns, hung from the branches, gave the leaves a

grayish green tint. Rustics and their partners danced in a circle

shouting a wild dance tune to the feeble accompaniment of two violins

and a clarinet, the players seated on a large table as a platform. The

boisterous singing of the peasants at times completely drowned the

instruments, and the feeble strains torn to tatters by the

unrestrained voices seemed to fall from the air in shreds, in little

fragments of scattered notes.

Two large barrels surrounded by flaming torches were tapped, and two

servant maids were kept busy rinsing glasses and bowls in order to

refill them at the tap whence flowed the red wine, or at the tap of

the cider barrel. On the table were bread, sausages and cheese. Every

one swallowed a mouthful from time to time, and beneath the roof of

illuminated foliage this wholesome and boisterous fête made the

melancholy watchers in the dining-room long to dance also, and to

drink from one of those large barrels, while they munched a slice of

bread and butter and a raw onion.

The mayor, who was beating time with his knife, cried: "By Jove, that

is all right; it is like the wedding of Ganache."

A suppressed giggle was heard, but Abbé Picot, the natural enemy of

civil authority, cried: "You mean of Cana." The other did not accept

the correction. "No, monsieur le curé, I know what I am talking about;

when I say Ganache, I mean Ganache."

They rose from table and went into the drawing-room, and then outside

to mix with the merrymakers. The guests soon left.

They went into the house. They were surprised to see Madame Adelaide

sobbing on Julien's shoulder. Her tears, noisy tears, as if blown out

by a pair of bellows, seemed to come from her nose, her mouth and her

eyes at the same time; and the young man, dumfounded, awkward, was

supporting the heavy woman who had sunk into his arms to commend to

his care her darling, her little one, her adored daughter.

The baron rushed toward them, saying: "Oh, no scenes, no tears, I beg

of you," and, taking his wife to a chair, he made her sit down, while

she wiped away her tears. Then, turning to Jeanne: "Come, little one,

kiss your mother and go to bed."

What happened then? She could hardly have told, for she seemed to have

lost her head, but she felt a shower of little grateful kisses on her

lips.

Day dawned. Julien awoke, yawned, stretched, looked at his wife,

smiled and asked: "Did you sleep well, darling?"

She noticed that he now said "thou," and she replied, bewildered,

"Why, yes. And you?" "Oh, very well," he answered. And turning toward

her, he kissed her and then began to chat quietly. He set before her

plans of living, with the idea of economy, and this word occurring

several times, astonished Jeanne. She listened without grasping the

meaning of his words, looked at him, but was thinking of a thousand

things that passed rapidly through her mind hardly leaving a trace.

The clock struck eight. "Come, we must get up," he said. "It would

look ridiculous for us to be late." When he was dressed he assisted

his wife with all the little details of her toilet, not allowing her

to call Rosalie. As they left the room he stopped. "You know, when we

are alone, we can now use 'thou,' but before your parents it is better

to wait a while. It will be quite natural when we come back from our

wedding journey."

She did not go down till luncheon was ready. The day passed like any

ordinary day, as if nothing new had occurred. There was one man more

in the house, that was all.

CHAPTER V

CORSICA AND A NEW LIFE

Four days later the travelling carriage arrived that was to take them

to Marseilles.

After the first night Jeanne had become accustomed to Julien's kisses

and caresses, although her repugnance to a closer intimacy had not

diminished. She thought him handsome, she loved him. She again felt

happy and cheerful.

The farewells were short and without sadness. The baroness alone

seemed tearful. As the carriage was just starting she placed a purse,

heavy as lead, in her daughter's hand, saying, "That is for your

little expenses as a bride."

Jeanne thrust the purse in her pocket and the carriage started.

Toward evening Julien said: "How much money did your mother give you

in that purse?"

She had not given it a thought, and she poured out the contents on her

knees. A golden shower filled her lap: two thousand francs. She

clapped her hands. "I shall commit all kinds of extravagance," she

said as she replaced it in the purse.

After travelling eight days in terribly hot weather they reached

Marseilles. The following day the Roi-Louis, a little mail

steamer which went to Naples by way of Ajaccio, took them to Corsica.

Corsica! Its "maquis," its bandits, its mountains! The birthplace of

Napoleon! It seemed to Jeanne that she was leaving real life to enter

into a dream, although wide awake. Standing side by side on the bridge

of the steamer, they looked at the cliffs of Provence as they passed

swiftly by them. The calm sea of deep blue seemed petrified beneath

the ardent rays of the sun.

"Do you remember our excursion in Père Lastique's boat?" said Jeanne.

Instead of replying, he gave her a hasty kiss on the ear.

The paddle-wheels struck the water, disturbing its torpor, and a long

track of foam like the froth of champagne remained in the wake of the

boat, reaching as far as the eye could see. Jeanne drank in with

delight the odor of the salt mist that seemed to go to the very tips

of her fingers. Everywhere the sea. But ahead of them there was

something gray, not clearly defined in the early dawn; a sort of

massing of strange-looking clouds, pointed, jagged, seemed to rest on

the waters.

Presently it became clearer, its outline more distinct on the

brightening sky; a large chain of mountains, peaked and weird,

appeared. It was Corsica, covered with a light veil of mist. The sun

rose behind it, outlining the jagged crests like black shadows. Then

all the summits were bathed in light, while the rest of the island

remained covered with mist.

The captain, a little sun-browned man, dried up, stunted, toughened

and shrivelled by the harsh salt winds, appeared on the bridge and in

a voice hoarse after twenty years of command and worn from shouting

amid the storms, said to Jeanne:

"Do you perceive it, that odor?"

She certainly noticed a strong and peculiar odor of plants, a wild

aromatic odor.

"That is Corsica that sends out that fragrance, madame," said the

captain. "It is her peculiar odor of a pretty woman. After being away

for twenty years, I should recognize it five miles out at sea. I

belong to it. He, down there, at Saint Helena, he speaks of it always,

it seems, of the odor of his native country. He belongs to my family."

And the captain, taking off his hat, saluted Corsica, saluted down

yonder, across the ocean, the great captive emperor who belonged to

his family.

Jeanne was so affected that she almost cried.

Then, pointing toward the horizon, the captain said: "Les

Sanguinaires."

Julien was standing beside his wife, with his arm round her waist, and

they both looked out into the distance to see what he was alluding to.

They at length perceived some pyramidal rocks which the vessel rounded

presently to enter an immense peaceful gulf surrounded by lofty

summits, the base of which was covered with what looked like moss.

Pointing to this verdant growth, the captain said: "Le maquis."

As they proceeded on their course the circle of mountains appeared to

close in behind the steamer, which moved along slowly in such a lake

of transparent azure that one could sometimes see to the bottom.

The town suddenly appeared perfectly white at the end of the gulf, on

the edge of the water, at the base of the mountains. Some little

Italian boats were anchored in the dock. Four or five rowboats came up

beside the Roi-Louis to get passengers.

Julien, who was collecting the baggage, asked his wife in a low tone:

"Twenty sous is enough, is it not, to give to the porter?" For a week

he had constantly asked the same question, which annoyed her each

time. She replied somewhat impatiently: "When one is not sure of

giving enough, one gives too much."

He was always disputing with the hotel proprietors, with the servants,

the drivers, the vendors of all kinds, and when, by dint of

bargaining, he had obtained a reduction in price, he would say to

Jeanne as he rubbed his hands: "I do not like to be cheated."

She trembled whenever a bill came in, certain beforehand of the

remarks that he would make about each item, humiliated at this

bargaining, blushing up to the roots of her hair beneath the

contemptuous glances of the servants as they looked after her husband,

while they held in their hand the meagre tip.

He had a dispute with the boatmen who landed him.

The first tree Jeanne saw was a palm. They went to a great, empty

hotel at the corner of an immense square and ordered breakfast.

After an hour's rest they arranged an itinerary for their trip, and at

the end of three days spent in this little town, hidden at the end of

the blue gulf, and hot as a furnace enclosed in its curtain of

mountains, which keep every breath of air from it, they decided to

hire some saddle horses, so as to be able to cross any difficult pass,

and selected two little Corsican stallions with fiery eyes, thin and

unwearying, and set out one morning at daybreak. A guide, mounted on a

mule, accompanied them and carried the provisions, for inns are

unknown in this wild country.

The road ran along the gulf and soon turned into a kind of valley, and

on toward the high mountains. They frequently crossed the dry beds of

torrents with only a tiny stream of water trickling under the stones,

gurgling faintly like a wild animal in hiding.

The uncultivated country seemed perfectly barren. The sides of the

hills were covered with tall weeds, yellow from the blazing sun.

Sometimes they met a mountaineer, either on foot or mounted on a

little horse, or astride a donkey about as big as a dog. They all

carried a loaded rifle slung across their backs, old rusty weapons,

but redoubtable in their hands.

The pungent odor of the aromatic herbs with which the island is

overgrown seemed to make the air heavy. The road ascended gradually

amid the long curves of the mountains. The red or blue granite peaks

gave an appearance of fairyland to the wild landscape, and on the

foothills immense forests of chestnut trees looked like green brush,

compared with the elevations above them.

Sometimes the guide, reaching out his hand toward some of these

heights, would repeat a name. Jeanne and Julien would look where he

pointed, but see nothing, until at last they discovered something

gray, like a mass of stones fallen from the summit. It was a little

village, a hamlet of granite hanging there, fastened on like a

veritable bird's nest and almost invisible on the huge mountain.

Walking their horses like this made Jeanne nervous. "Let us go

faster," she said. And she whipped up her horse. Then, as she did not

hear her husband following her, she turned round and laughed heartily

as she saw him coming along, pale, and holding on to his horse's mane

as it bounced him up and down. His very appearance of a "beau

cavalier" made his awkwardness and timidity all the more comical.

They trotted along quietly. The road now ran between two interminable

forests of brush, which covered the whole side of the mountain like a

garment. This was the "Maquis," composed of scrub oak, juniper,

arbutus, mastic, privet, gorse, laurel, myrtle and boxwood,

intertwined with clematis, huge ferns, honeysuckle, cytisus, rosemary,

lavender and brambles, which covered the sides of the mountain with an

impenetrable fleece.

They were hungry. The guide rejoined them and led them to one of those

charming springs so frequent in rocky countries, a tiny thread of iced

water issuing from a little hole in the rock and flowing into a

chestnut leaf that some passerby had placed there to guide the water

into one's mouth.

Jeanne felt so happy that she could hardly restrain herself from

screaming for joy.

They continued their journey and began to descend the slope winding

round the Bay of Sagone. Toward evening they passed through Cargese,

the Greek village founded by a colony of refugees who were driven from

their country. Tall, beautiful girls, with rounded hips, long hands

and slender waists, and singularly graceful, were grouped beside a

fountain. Julien called out, "Good evening," and they replied in

musical tones in the harmonious language of their own land.

When they reached Piana they had to beg for hospitality, as in ancient

times and in desert lands. Jeanne trembled with joy as they waited for

the door to be opened after Julien knocked. Oh, this was a journey

worth while, with all the unexpected of unexplored paths.

It happened to be the home of a young couple. They received the

travellers as the patriarchs must have received the guest sent by God.

They had to sleep on a corn husk mattress in an old moldy house. The

woodwork, all eaten by worms, overrun with long boring-worms, seemed

to emit sounds, to be alive and to sigh.

They set off again at daybreak, and presently stopped before a forest,

a veritable forest of purple granite. There were peaks, pillars,

bell-towers, wondrous forms molded by age, the ravaging wind and the

sea mist. As much as three hundred metres in height, slender, round,

twisted, hooked, deformed, unexpected and fantastic, these amazing

rocks looked like trees, plants, animals, monuments, men, monks in

their garb, horned devils, gigantic birds, a whole population of

monsters, a menagerie of nightmares petrified by the will of some

eccentric divinity.

Jeanne had ceased talking, her heart was full. She took Julien's hand

and squeezed it, overcome with a longing for love in presence of the

beauty of nature.

Suddenly, as they emerged from this chaos, they saw before them

another gulf, encircled by a wall of blood-red granite. And these red

rocks were reflected in the blue waters.

"Oh, Julien!" faltered Jeanne, unable to speak for wonder and choking

with her emotion. Two tears fell from her eyes. Julien gazed at her in

astonishment and said:

"What is the matter, my pet?"

She wiped away her tears, smiled and replied in a rather shaky voice:

"Nothing--I am nervous--I do not know--it just came over me. I am so

happy that the least thing affects me."

He could not understand these feminine attacks of "nerves," the shocks

of these vibrant beings, excited at nothing, whom enthusiasm stirs as

might a catastrophe, whom an imperceptible sensation completely

upsets, driving them wild with joy or despair.

These tears seemed absurd to him, and thinking only of the bad road,

he said:

"You would do better to watch your horse."

They descended an almost impassable path to the shore of the gulf,

then turned to the right to ascend the gloomy Val d'Ota.

But the road was so bad that Julien proposed that they should go on

foot. Jeanne was delighted. She was enchanted at the idea of walking,

of being alone with him after her late emotion.

The guide went ahead with the mule and the horses and they walked

slowly.

The mountain, cleft from top to bottom, spreads apart. The path lies

in this breach, between two gigantic walls. A roaring torrent flows

through the gorge. The air is icy, the granite looks black, and high

above one the glimpse of blue sky astonishes and bewilders one.

A sudden noise made Jeanne start. She raised her eyes. An immense bird

flew away from a hollow; it was an eagle. His spread wings seemed to

brush the two walls of the gorge and he soared into the blue and

disappeared.

Farther on there was a double gorge and the path lay between the two

in abrupt zigzags. Jeanne, careless and happy, took the lead, the

pebbles rolling away beneath her feet, fearlessly leaning over the

abysses. Julien followed her, somewhat out of breath, his eyes on the

ground for fear of becoming dizzy.

All at once the sun shone down on them, and it seemed as if they were

leaving the infernal regions. They were thirsty, and following a track

of moisture, they crossed a wilderness of stones and found a little

spring conducted into a channel made of a piece of hollowed-out wood

for the benefit of the goatherds. A carpet of moss covered the ground

all round it, and Jeanne and Julien knelt down to drink.

As they were enjoying the fresh cold water, Julien tried to draw

Jeanne away to tease her. She resisted and their lips met and parted,

and the stream of cold water splashed their faces, their necks, their

clothes and their hands, and their kisses mingled in the stream.

They were a long time reaching the summit of the declivity, as the

road was so winding and uneven, and they did not reach Evisa until

evening and the house of Paoli Palabretti, a relative of their guide.

He was a tall man, somewhat bent, with the mournful air of a

consumptive. He took them to their room, a cheerless room of bare

stone, but handsome for this country, where all elegance is ignored.

He expressed in his language--the Corsican patois, a jumble of French

and Italian--his pleasure at welcoming them, when a shrill voice

interrupted him. A little swarthy woman, with large black eyes, a skin

warmed by the sun, a slender waist, teeth always showing in a

perpetual smile, darted forward, kissed Jeanne, shook Julien's hand

and said: "Good-day, madame; good-day, monsieur; I hope you are well."

She took their hats, shawls, carrying all on one arm, for the other

was in a sling, and then she made them all go outside, saying to her

husband: "Go and take them for a walk until dinner time."

M. Palabretti obeyed at once and walked between the two young people

as he showed them the village. He dragged his feet and his words,

coughing frequently, and repeating at each attack of coughing:

"It is the air of the Val, which is cool, and has struck my chest."

He led them on a by-path beneath enormous chestnut trees. Suddenly he

stopped and said in his monotonous voice: "It is here that my cousin,

Jean Rinaldi, was killed by Mathieu Lori. See, I was there, close to

Jean, when Mathieu appeared at ten paces from us. 'Jean,' he cried,

'do not go to Albertacce; do not go, Jean, or I will kill you. I warn

you!'

"I took Jean's arm: 'Do not go there, Jean; he will do it.'

"It was about a girl whom they were both after, Paulina Sinacoupi.

"But Jean cried out: 'I am going, Mathieu; you will not be the one to

prevent me.'

"Then Mathieu unslung his gun, and before I could adjust mine, he

fired.

"Jean leaped two feet in the air, like a child skipping, yes,

monsieur, and he fell back full on me, so that my gun went off and

rolled as far as the big chestnut tree over yonder.

"Jean's mouth was wide open, but he did not utter a word; he was

dead."

The young people gazed in amazement at the calm witness of this crime.

Jeanne asked:

"And what became of the assassin?"

Paoli Palabretti had a long fit of coughing and then said:

"He escaped to the mountain. It was my brother who killed him the

following year. You know, my brother, Philippi Palabretti, the

bandit."

Jeanne shuddered.

"Your brother a bandit?"

With a gleam of pride in his eye, the calm Corsican replied:

"Yes, madame. He was celebrated, that one. He laid low six gendarmes.

He died at the same time as Nicolas Morali, when they were trapped in

the Niolo, after six days of fighting, and were about to die of

hunger.

"The country is worth it," he added with a resigned air in the same

tone in which he said: "It is the air of the Val, which is cool."

Then they went home to dinner, and the little Corsican woman behaved

as if she had known them for twenty years.

But Jeanne was worried. When Julien again held her in his arms, would

she experience the same strange and intense sensation that she had

felt on the moss beside the spring? And when they were alone together

that evening she trembled lest she should still be insensible to his

kisses. But she was reassured, and this was her first night of love.

The next day, as they were about to set out, she decided that she

would not leave this humble cottage, where it seemed as though a fresh

happiness had begun for her.

She called her host's little wife into her room and, while making

clear that she did not mean it as a present, she insisted, even with

some annoyance, on sending her from Paris, as soon as she arrived, a

remembrance, a remembrance to which she attached an almost

superstitious significance.

The little Corsican refused for some time, not wishing to accept it.

But at last she consented, saying:

"Well, then, send me a little pistol, a very small one."

Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment. The other added in her ear, as

one confides a sweet and intimate secret: "It is to kill my

brother-in-law." And smiling, she hastily unwound the bandages around

the helpless arm, and showing her firm, white skin with the scratch of

a stiletto across it, now almost healed, she said: "If I had not been

almost as strong as he is, he would have killed me. My husband is not

jealous, he knows me; and, besides, he is ill, you know, and that

quiets your blood. And, besides, madame, I am an honest woman; but my

brother-in-law believes all that he hears. He is jealous for my

husband and he will surely try it again. Then I shall have my little

pistol; I shall be easy, and sure of my revenge."

Jeanne promised to send the weapon, kissed her new friend tenderly and

they set out on their journey.

The rest of the trip was nothing but a dream, a continual series of

embraces, an intoxication of caresses. She saw nothing, neither the

landscape, nor the people, nor the places where they stopped. She saw

nothing but Julien.

On arriving at Bastia, they had to pay the guide. Julien fumbled in

his pockets. Not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne: "As you

are not using your mother's two thousand francs, give them to me to

carry. They will be safer in my belt, and it will avoid my having to

make change."

She handed him her purse.

They went to Leghorn, visited Florence, Genoa and all the Cornici.

They reached Marseilles on a morning when the north wind was blowing.

Two months had elapsed since they left the "Poplars." It was now the

15th of October.

Jeanne, affected by the cold wind that seemed to come from yonder,

from far-off Normandy, felt sad. Julien had, for some time, appeared

changed, tired, indifferent, and she feared she knew not what.

They delayed their return home four days longer, not being able to

make up their minds to leave this pleasant land of the sun. It seemed

to her that she had come to an end of her happiness.

At length they left. They were to make all their purchases in Paris,

prior to settling down for good at the "Poplars," and Jeanne looked

forward to bringing back some treasures, thanks to her mother's

present. But the first thing she thought of was the pistol promised to

the little Corsican woman of Evisa.

The day after they arrived she said to Julien: "Dear, will you give me

that money of mamma's? I want to make my purchases."

He turned toward her with a look of annoyance.

"How much do you want?"

"Why--whatever you please."

"I will give you a hundred francs," he replied, "but do not squander

it."

She did not know what to say, amazed and confused. At length she

faltered: "But--I--handed you the money to----"

He did not give her time to finish.

"Yes, of course. Whether it is in my pocket or yours makes no

difference from the moment that we have the same purse. I do not

refuse you, do I, since I am giving you a hundred francs?"

She took the five gold pieces without saying a word, but she did not

venture to ask for any more, and she bought nothing but the pistol.

Eight days later they set out for the "Poplars."

CHAPTER VI

DISENCHANTMENT

The family and servants were awaiting them outside the white gate with

brick supports. The post-chaise drew up and there were long and

affectionate greetings. Little mother wept; Jeanne, affected, wiped

away some tears; father nervously walked up and down.

Then, as the baggage was being unloaded, they told of their travels

beside the parlor fire. Jeanne's words flowed freely, and everything

was told, everything, in a half hour, except, perhaps, a few little

details forgotten in this rapid account.

The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, also greatly

affected, assisted her. When this was finished and everything had been

put away, the little maid left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhat

fatigued, sat down.

She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking some

occupation for her mind, some work for her hands. She did not care to

go down again into the drawing-room, where her mother was asleep, and

she thought she would take a walk. But the country seemed so sad that

she felt a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window.

Then it came to her that she had no longer anything to do, never again

anything to do. All her young life at the convent had been preoccupied

with the future, busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hope

filled her hours at that time, so that she was not aware of their

flight. Then hardly had she left those austere walls, where her

illusions had unfolded, than her expectations of love were at once

realized. The longed-for lover, met, loved and married within a few

weeks, as one marries on these sudden resolves, had carried her off in

his arms, without giving her time for reflection.

But now the sweet reality of the first days was to become the everyday

reality, which closed the door on vague hopes, on the enchanting

worries of the unknown. Yes, there was nothing more to look forward

to. And there was nothing more to do, today, to-morrow, never. She

felt all this vaguely as a certain disillusion, a certain crumbling of

her dreams.

She rose and leaned her forehead against the cold window panes.

Then, after gazing for some time at the sky across which dark clouds

were passing, she decided to go out.

Was this the same country, the same grass, the same trees as in May?

What had become of the sunlit cheerfulness of the leaves and the

poetry of the green grass, where dandelions, poppies and moon daisies

bloomed and where yellow butterflies fluttered as though held by

invisible wires? And this intoxication of the air teeming with life,

with fragrance, with fertilizing pollen, existed no longer!

The avenues, soaked by the constant autumnal downpours, were covered

with a thick carpet of fallen leaves which extended beneath the

shivering bareness of the almost leafless poplars. She went as far as

the shrubbery. It was as sad as the chamber of a dying person. A green

hedge which separated the little winding walks was bare of leaves.

Little birds flew from place to place with a little chilly cry,

seeking a shelter.

The thick curtain of elm trees that formed a protection against the

sea wind, the lime tree and the plane tree with their crimson and

yellow tints seemed clothed, the one in red velvet and the other in

yellow silk.

Jeanne walked slowly up and down petite mère's avenue, alongside the

Couillards' farm. Something weighed on her spirit like a presentiment

of the long boredom of the monotonous life about to begin.

She seated herself on the bank where Julien had first told her of his

love and remained there, dreaming, scarcely thinking, depressed to the

very soul, longing to lie down, to sleep, in order to escape the

dreariness of the day.

All at once she perceived a gull crossing the sky, carried away in a

gust of wind, and she recalled the eagle she had seen down there in

Corsica, in the gloomy vale of Ota. She felt a spasm at her heart as

at the remembrance of something pleasant that is gone by, and she had

a sudden vision of the beautiful island with its wild perfume, its sun

that ripens oranges and lemons, its mountains with their rosy summits,

its azure gulfs and its ravines through which the torrents flowed.

And the moist, severe landscape that surrounded her, with the falling

leaves and the gray clouds blown along by the wind, enfolded her in

such a heavy mantle of misery that she went back to the house to keep

from sobbing.

Her mother was dozing in a torpid condition in front of the fire,

accustomed to the melancholy of the long days, and not noticing it any

longer. Her father and Julien had gone for a walk to talk about

business matters. Night was coming on, filling the large drawing-room

with gloom lighted by reflections of light from the fire.

The baron presently appeared, followed by Julien. As soon as the

vicomte entered the room he rang the bell, saying: "Quick, quick, let

us have some light! It is gloomy in here."

And he sat down before the fire. While his wet shoes were steaming in

the warmth and the mud was drying on his soles, he rubbed his hands

cheerfully as he said: "I think it is going to freeze; the sky is

clearing in the north, and it is full moon to-night; we shall have a

stinger to-night."

Then turning to his daughter: "Well, little one, are you glad to be

back again in your own country, in your own home, with the old folks?"

This simple question upset Jeanne. She threw herself into her father's

arms, her eyes full of tears, and kissed him nervously, as though

asking pardon, for in spite of her honest attempt to be cheerful, she

felt sad enough to give up altogether. She recalled the joy she had

promised herself at seeing her parents again, and she was surprised at

the coldness that seemed to numb her affection, just as if, after

constantly thinking of those one loves, when at a distance and unable

to see them at any moment, one should feel, on seeing them again, a

sort of check of affection, until the bonds of their life in common

had been renewed.

Dinner lasted a long time. No one spoke much. Julien appeared to have

forgotten his wife.

In the drawing-room Jeanne sat before the fire in a drowsy condition,

opposite little mother, who was sound asleep. Aroused by the voices of

the men, Jeanne asked herself, as she tried to rouse herself, if she,

too, was going to become a slave to this dreary lethargy of habit that

nothing varies.

The baron approached the fire, and holding out his hands to the

glowing flame, he said, smiling: "Ah, that burns finely this evening.

It is freezing, children; it is freezing." Then, placing his hand on

Jeanne's shoulder and pointing to the fire, he said: "See here, little

daughter, that is the best thing in life, the hearth, the hearth, with

one's own around one. Nothing else counts. But supposing we retire.

You children must be tired out."

When she was in her room, Jeanne asked herself how she could feel so

differently on returning a second time to the place that she thought

she loved. Why did she feel as though she were wounded? Why did this

house, this beloved country, all that hitherto had thrilled her with

happiness, now appear so distressing?

Her eyes suddenly fell on her clock. The little bee was still swinging

from left to right and from right to left with the same quick,

continuous motion above the scarlet blossoms. All at once an impulse

of tenderness moved her to tears at sight of this little piece of

mechanism that seemed to be alive. She had not been so affected on

kissing her father and mother. The heart has mysteries that no

arguments can solve.

For the first time since her marriage she was alone, Julien, under

pretext of fatigue, having taken another room.

She lay awake a long time, unaccustomed to being alone and disturbed

by the bleak north wind which beat against the roof.

She was awakened the next morning by a bright light that flooded her

room. She put on a dressing gown and ran to the window and opened it.

An icy breeze, sharp and bracing, streamed into the room, making her

skin tingle and her eyes water. The sun appeared behind the trees on a

crimson sky, and the earth, covered with frost and dry and hard, rang

out beneath one's footsteps. In one night all the leaves had blown off

the trees, and in the distance beyond the level ground was seen the

long green line of water, covered with trails of white foam.

Jeanne dressed herself and went out, and for the sake of an object she

went to call on the farmers.

The Martins held up their hands in surprise, and Mrs. Martin kissed

her on both cheeks, and then they made her drink a glass of noyau. She

then went to the other farm. The Couillards also were surprised. Mrs.

Couillard pecked her on the ears and she had to drink a glass of

cassis. Then she went home to breakfast.

The day went by like the previous day, cold instead of damp. And the

other days of the week resembled these two days, and all the weeks of

the month were like the first week.

Little by little, however, she ceased to regret far-off lands. The

force of habit was covering her life with a layer of resignation

similar to the lime-stone formation deposited on objects by certain

springs. And a kind of interest for the thousand-and-one little

insignificant things of daily life, a care for the simple, ordinary

everyday occupations, awakened in her heart. A sort of pensive

melancholy, a vague disenchantment with life was growing up in her

mind. What did she lack? What did she want? She did not know. She had

no worldly desires, no thirst for amusement, no longing for

permissible pleasures. What then? Just as old furniture tarnishes in

time, so everything was slowly becoming faded to her eyes, everything

seemed to be fading, to be taking on pale, dreary shades.

Her relations with Julien had completely changed. He seemed to be

quite different since they came back from their honeymoon, like an

actor who has played his part and resumes his ordinary manner. He

scarcely paid any attention to her or even spoke to her. All trace of

love had suddenly disappeared, and he seldom came into her room at

night.

He had taken charge of the money and of the house, changed the leases,

worried the peasants, cut down expenses, and having adopted the

costume of a gentleman farmer, he had lost his polish and elegance as

a fiancé.

He always wore the same suit, although it was covered with spots. It

was an old velveteen shooting jacket with brass buttons, that he had

found among his former wardrobe, and with the carelessness that is

frequent with those who no longer seek to please, he had given up

shaving, and his long beard, badly cut, made an incredible change for

the worse in his appearance. His hands were never cared for, and after

each meal he drank four or five glasses of brandy.

Jeanne tried to remonstrate with him gently, but he had answered her

so abruptly: "Won't you let me alone!" that she never ventured to give

him any more advice.

She had adapted herself to these changes in a manner that surprised

herself. He had become a stranger to her, a stranger whose mind and

heart were closed to her. She constantly thought about it, asking

herself how it was that after having met, loved, married in an impulse

of affection, they should all at once find themselves almost as much

strangers as though they had never shared the same room.

And how was it that she did not feel this neglect more deeply? Was

this life? Had they deceived themselves? Did the future hold nothing

further for her?

If Julien had remained handsome, carefully dressed, elegant, she might

possibly have suffered more deeply.

It had been agreed that after the new year the young couple should

remain alone and that the father and mother should go back to spend a

few months at their house in Rouen. The young people were not to leave

the "Poplars" that winter, so as to get thoroughly settled and to

become accustomed to each other and to the place where all their life

would be passed. They had a few neighbors to whom Julien would

introduce his wife. These were the Brisevilles, the Colteliers and the

Fourvilles.

But the young people could not begin to pay calls because they had not

as yet been able to get a painter to alter the armorial bearings on

the carriage.

The old family coach had been given up to his son-in-law by the baron,

and nothing would have induced him to show himself at the neighboring

châteaux if the coat-of-arms of the De Lamares were not quartered with

those of the Le Perthuis des Vauds.

There was only one man in the district who made a specialty of

heraldic designs, a painter of Bolbec, called Bataille, who was in

demand at all the Norman castles in turn to make these precious

designs on the doors of carriages.

At length one morning in December, just as they were finishing

breakfast, they saw an individual open the gate and walk toward the

house. He was carrying a box on his back. This was Bataille.

They offered him some breakfast, and, while he was eating, the baron

and Julien made sketches of quarterings. The baroness, all upset as

soon as these things were discussed, gave her opinion. And even Jeanne

took part in the discussion, as though some mysterious interest had

suddenly awakened in her.

Bataille, while eating, gave his ideas, at times taking the pencil and

tracing a design, citing examples, describing all the aristocratic

carriages in the countryside, and seemed to have brought with him in

his ideas, even in his voice, a sort of atmosphere of aristocracy.

As soon as he had finished his coffee, they all went to the coach

house. They took off the cover of the carriage and Bataille examined

it. He then gravely gave his views as to the size he considered

suitable for the design, and after an exchange of ideas, he set to

work.

Notwithstanding the cold, the baroness had her chair brought out so as

to watch him working, and then her foot-stove, for her feet were

freezing. She then began to chat with the painter, on all the recent

births, deaths and marriages of which she had not heard, thus adding

to the genealogical tree which she carried in her memory.

Julien sat beside her, astride on a chair. He was smoking, spitting on

the ground, listening and following with his glances the emblazoning

of his rank.

Presently old Simon, who was on his way to the vegetable garden, his

spade on his shoulder, stopped to look at the work; and as Bataille's

arrival had become known at the two farms, the farmers' wives soon put

in an appearance. They went into raptures, standing one at either side

of the baroness, exclaiming: "My! it requires some cleverness all the

same to fix up those things."

The two doors could not be finished before the next day about eleven

o'clock. Every one was on hand; and they dragged the carriage outside

so as to get a better view of it.

It was perfect. Bataille was complimented, and went off with his box

on his back. They all agreed that the painter had great ability, and

if circumstances had been favorable would doubtless have been a great

artist.

Julien, by way of economy, had introduced great reforms which

necessitated making some changes. The old coachman had been made

gardener, Julien undertaking to drive himself, having sold the

carriage horses to avoid buying feed for them. But as it was necessary

to have some one to hold the horses when he and his wife got out of

the carriage, he had made a little cow tender named Marius into a

groom. Then in order to get some horses, he introduced a special

clause into the Couillards' and Martins' leases, by which they were

bound to supply a horse each, on a certain day every month, the date

to be fixed by him; and this would exempt them from their tribute of

poultry.

So the Couillards brought a big yellow horse, and the Martins a small

white animal with long, unclipped coat, and the two were harnessed up

together. Marius, buried in an old livery belonging to old Simon, led

the carriage up to the front door.

Julien, looking clean and brushed up, looked a little like his former

self; but his long beard gave him a common look in spite of all. He

looked over the horses, the carriage, and the little groom, and seemed

satisfied, the only really important thing to him being the newly

painted escutcheon.

The baroness came down leaning on her husband's arm and got into the

carriage. Then Jeanne appeared. She began to laugh at the horses,

saying that the white one was the son of the yellow horse; then,

perceiving Marius, his face buried under his hat with its cockade, his

nose alone preventing it from covering his face altogether, his hands

hidden in his long sleeves, and the tail of his coat forming a skirt

round his legs, his feet encased in immense shoes showing in a comical

manner beneath it, and then when he threw his head back so as to see,

and lifted up his leg to walk as if he were crossing a river, she

burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

The baron turned round, glanced at the little bewildered groom and he,

too, burst out laughing, calling to his wife: "Look at Ma-Ma-Marius!

Is he not comical? Heavens, how funny he looks!"

The baroness, looking out of the carriage window, was also convulsed,

so that the carriage shook on its springs.

But Julien, pale with anger, asked: "What makes you laugh like that?

Are you crazy?"

Jeanne, quite convulsed and unable to stop laughing, sat down on the

doorstep; the baron did the same, while, in the carriage, spasmodic

sneezes, a sort of constant chuckling, told that the baroness was

choking. Presently there was a motion beneath Marius' livery. He had,

doubtless, understood the joke, for he was shaking with laughter

beneath his hat.

Julien darted forward in exasperation. With a box on the ear he sent

the boy's hat flying across the lawn; then, turning toward his

father-in-law, he stammered in a voice trembling with rage: "It seems

to me that you should be the last to laugh. We should not be where we

are now if you had not wasted your money and ruined your property.

Whose fault is it if you are ruined?"

The laughter ceased at once, and no one spoke. Jeanne, now ready to

cry, got into the carriage and sat beside her mother. The baron,

silent and astonished, took his place opposite the two ladies, and

Julien sat on the box after lifting to the seat beside him the weeping

boy, whose face was beginning to swell.

The road was dreary and appeared long. The occupants of the carriage

were silent. All three sad and embarrassed, they would not acknowledge

to one another what was occupying their thoughts. They felt that they

could not talk on indifferent subjects while these thoughts had

possession of them, and preferred to remain silent than to allude to

this painful subject.

They drove past farmyards, the carriage jogging along unevenly with

the ill-matched animals, putting to flight terrified black hens who

plunged into the bushes and disappeared, occasionally followed by a

barking wolf-hound.

At length they entered a wide avenue of pine trees, at the end of

which was a white, closed gate. Marius ran to open it, and they drove

in round an immense grass plot, and drew up before a high, spacious,

sad-looking building with closed shutters.

The hall door opened abruptly, and an old, paralyzed servant wearing a

black waistcoat with red stripes partially covered by his working

apron slowly descended the slanting steps. He took the visitors' names

and led them into an immense reception room, and opened with

difficulty the Venetian blinds which were always kept closed. The

furniture had covers on it, and the clock and candelabra were wrapped

in white muslin. An atmosphere of mildew, an atmosphere of former

days, damp and icy, seemed to permeate one's lungs, heart and skin

with melancholy.

They all sat down and waited. They heard steps in the hall above them

that betokened unaccustomed haste. The hosts were hurriedly dressing.

The baroness, who was chilled, sneezed constantly. Julien paced up and

down. Jeanne, despondent, sat beside her mother. The baron leaned

against the marble mantelpiece with his head bent down.

Finally, one of the tall doors opened, and the Vicomte and Vicomtesse

de Briseville appeared. They were both small, thin, vivacious, of no

age in particular, ceremonious and embarrassed.

After the first greetings, there seemed to be nothing to say. So they

began to congratulate each other for no special reason, and hoped that

these friendly relations would be kept up. It was a treat to see

people when one lived in the country the year round.

The icy atmosphere pierced to their bones and made their voices

hoarse. The baroness was coughing now and had stopped sneezing. The

baron thought it was time to leave. The Brisevilles said: "What, so

soon? Stay a little longer." But Jeanne had risen in spite of Julien's

signals, for he thought the visit too short.

They attempted to ring for the servant to order the carriage to the

door, but the bell would not ring. The host started out himself to

attend to it, but found that the horses had been put in the stable.

They had to wait. Every one tried to think of something to say.

Jeanne, involuntarily shivering with cold, inquired what their hosts

did to occupy themselves all the year round. The Brisevilles were much

astonished; for they were always busy, either writing letters to their

aristocratic relations, of whom they had a number scattered all over

France, or attending to microscopic duties, as ceremonious to one

another as though they were strangers, and talking grandiloquently of

the most insignificant matters.

At last the carriage passed the windows with its ill-matched team. But

Marius had disappeared. Thinking he was off duty until evening, he had

doubtless gone for a walk.

Julien, perfectly furious, begged them to send him home on foot, and

after a great many farewells on both sides, they set out for the

"Poplars."

As soon as they were inside the carriage, Jeanne and her father, in

spite of Julien's brutal behavior of the morning which still weighed

on their minds, began to laugh at the gestures and intonations of the

Brisevilles. The baron imitated the husband, and Jeanne the wife. But

the baroness, a little touchy in these particulars, said: "You are

wrong to ridicule them thus; they are people of excellent family."

They were silent out of respect for little mother, but nevertheless,

from time to time, Jeanne and her father began again. The baroness

could not forbear smiling in her turn, but she repeated: "It is not

nice to laugh at people who belong to our class."

Suddenly the carriage stopped, and Julien called out to someone behind

it. Then Jeanne and the baron, leaning out, saw a singular creature

that appeared to be rolling along toward them. His legs entangled in

his flowing coattails, and blinded by his hat which kept falling over

his face, shaking his sleeves like the sails of a windmill, and

splashing into puddles of water, and stumbling against stones in the

road, running and bounding, Marius was following the carriage as fast

as his legs could carry him.

As soon as he caught up with it, Julien, leaning over, seized him by

the collar of his coat, sat him down beside him, and letting go the

reins, began to shower blows on the boy's hat, which sank down to his

shoulders with the reverberations of a drum. The boy screamed, tried

to get away, to jump from the carriage, while his master, holding him

with one hand, continued beating him with the other.

Jeanne, dumfounded, stammered: "Father--oh, father!" And the baroness,

wild with indignation, squeezed her husband's arm. "Stop him, Jack!"

she exclaimed. The baron quickly lowered the front window, and seizing

hold of his son-in-law's sleeve, he sputtered out in a voice trembling

with rage: "Have you almost finished beating that child?"

Julien turned round in astonishment: "Don't you see what a condition

his livery is in?"

But the baron, placing his head between them, said: "Well, what do I

care? There is no need to be brutal like that!"

Julien got angry again: "Let me alone, please; this is not your

affair!" And he was raising his hand again when his father-in-law

caught hold of it and dragged it down so roughly that he knocked it

against the wood of the seat, and he roared at him so loud: "If you do

not stop, I shall get out, and I will see that you stop it, myself,"

that Julien calmed down at once, and shrugging his shoulders without

replying, he whipped up the horses, who set out at a quick trot.

The two women, pale as death, did not stir, and one could hear

distinctly the thumping of the baroness' heart.

At dinner Julien was more charming than usual, as though nothing had

occurred. Jeanne, her father, and Madame Adelaide, pleased to see him

so amiable, fell in with his mood, and when Jeanne mentioned the

Brisevilles, he laughed at them himself, adding, however: "All the

same, they have the grand air."

They made no more visits, each one fearing to revive the Marius

episode. They decided, to send New Year's cards, and to wait until the

first warm days of spring before paying any more calls.

At Christmas they invited the curé, the mayor and his wife to dinner,

and again on New Year's Day. These were the only events that varied

the monotony of their life. The baron and his wife were to leave "The

Poplars" on the ninth of January. Jeanne wanted to keep them, but

Julien did not acquiesce, and the baron sent for a post-chaise from

Rouen, seeing his son-in-law's coolness.

The day before their departure, as it was a clear frost, Jeanne and

her father decided to go to Yport, which they had not visited since

her return from Corsica. They crossed the wood where she had strolled

on her wedding-day, all wrapped up in the one whose lifelong companion

she had become; the wood where she had received her first kiss,

trembled at the first breath of love, had a presentiment of that

sensual love of which she did not become aware until she was in the

wild vale of Ota beside the spring where they mingled their kisses as

they drank of its waters. The trees were now leafless, the climbing

vines dead.

They entered the little village. The empty, silent streets smelled of

the sea, of wrack, of fish. Huge brown nets were still hanging up to

dry outside the houses, or stretched out on the shingle. The gray,

cold sea, with its eternal roaring foam, was going out, uncovering the

green rocks at the foot of the cliff toward Fécamp.

Jeanne and her father, motionless, watched the fishermen setting out

in their boats in the dusk, as they did every night, risking their

lives to keep from starving, and so poor, nevertheless, that they

never tasted meat.

The baron, inspired at the sight of the ocean, murmured: "It is

terrible, but it is beautiful. How magnificent this sea is on which

the darkness is falling, and on which so many lives are in peril, is

it not, Jeannette?"

She replied with a cold smile: "It is nothing to the Mediterranean."

Her father, indignant, exclaimed: "The Mediterranean! It is oil, sugar

water, bluing water in a washtub. Look at this sea, how terrible it is

with its crests of foam! And think of all those men who have set out

on it, and who are already out of sight."

Jeanne assented with a sigh: "Yes, if you think so." But this name,

"Mediterranean," had wrung her heart afresh, sending her thoughts back

to those distant lands where her dreams lay buried.

Instead of returning home by the woods, they walked along the road,

mounting the ascent slowly. They were silent, sad at the thought of

the approaching separation. As they passed along beside the farmyards

an odor of crushed apples, that smell of new cider which seems to

pervade the atmosphere in this season all through Normandy, rose to

their nostrils, or else a strong smell of the cow stables. A small

lighted window at the end of the yard indicated the farmhouse.

It seemed to Jeanne that her mind was expanding, was beginning to

understand the psychic meaning of things; and these little scattered

gleams in the landscape gave her, all at once, a keen sense of the

isolation of all human lives, a feeling that everything detaches,

separates, draws one far away from the things they love.

She said, in a resigned tone: "Life is not always cheerful."

The baron sighed: "How can it be helped, daughter? We can do nothing."

The following day the baron and his wife went away, and Jeanne and

Julien were left alone.

CHAPTER VII

JEANNE'S DISCOVERY

Cards now became a distraction in the life of the young people. Every

morning after breakfast, Julien would play several games of bezique

with his wife, smoking and sipping brandy as he played. She would then

go up to her room and sit down beside the window, and as the rain beat

against the panes, or the wind shook the windows, she would embroider

away steadily. Occasionally she would raise her eyes and look out at

the gray sea which had white-caps on it. Then, after gazing listlessly

for some time, she would resume her work.

She had nothing else to do, Julien having taken the entire management

of the house, to satisfy his craving for authority and his craze for

economy. He was parsimonious in the extreme, never gave any tips, cut

down the food to the merest necessaries; and as Jeanne since her

return had ordered the baker to make her a little Norman "galette" for

breakfast, he had cut down this extra expense, and condemned her to

eat toast.

She said nothing in order to avoid recriminations, arguments and

quarrels; but she suffered keenly at each fresh manifestation of

avarice on the part of her husband. It appeared to her low and odious,

brought up as she had been in a family where money was never

considered. How often had she not heard her mother say: "Why, money is

made to be spent." Julien would now say: "Will you never become

accustomed to not throwing money away?" And each time he deducted a

few sous from some one's salary or on a note, he would say with a

smile, as he slipped the change into his pocket: "Little streams make

big rivers."

On certain days Jeanne would sit and dream. She would gradually cease

sewing and, with her hands idle, and forgetting her surroundings, she

would weave one of those romances of her girlhood and be lost in some

enchanting adventure. But suddenly Julien's voice giving some orders

to old Simon would snatch her abruptly from her dreams, and she would

take up her work again, saying: "That is all over," and a tear would

fall on her hands as she plied the needle.

Rosalie, formerly so cheerful and always singing, had changed. Her

rounded cheeks had lost their color, and were now almost hollow, and

sometimes had an earthy hue. Jeanne would frequently ask her: "Are you

ill, my girl?" The little maid would reply: "No, madame," while her

cheeks would redden slightly and she would retire hastily.

At the end of January the snow came. In one night the whole plain was

covered and the trees next morning were white with icy foam.

On one of these mornings, Jeanne was sitting warming her feet before

the fire in her room, while Rosalie, who had changed from day to day,

was making the bed. Suddenly hearing behind her a kind of moan, Jeanne

asked, without turning her head: "What is the matter?"

The maid replied as usual: "Nothing, madame"; but her voice was weak

and trembling.

Jeanne's thoughts were on something else, when she noticed that the

girl was not moving about the room. She called: "Rosalie!" Still no

sound. Then, thinking she might have left the room, she cried in a

louder tone: "Rosalie!" and she was reaching out her arm to ring the

bell, when a deep moan close beside her made her start up with a

shudder.

The little servant, her face livid, her eyes haggard, was seated on

the floor, her legs stretched out, and her back leaning against the

bed. Jeanne sprang toward her. "What is the matter with you--what is

the matter?" she asked.

The girl did not reply, did not move. She stared vacantly at her

mistress and gasped as though she were in terrible pain. Then,

suddenly, she slid down on her back at full length, clenching her

teeth to smother a cry of anguish.

Jeanne suddenly understood, and almost distracted, she ran to the head

of the stairs, crying: "Julien, Julien!"

"What do you want?" he replied from below.

She hardly knew how to tell him. "It is Rosalie, who----"

Julien rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and going abruptly into

the room, he found the poor girl had just been delivered of a child.

He looked round with a wicked look on his face, and pushing his

terrified wife out of the room, exclaimed: "This is none of your

affair. Go away. Send me Ludivine and old Simon."

Jeanne, trembling, descended to the kitchen, and then, not daring to

go upstairs again, she went into the drawing-room, in which there had

been no fire since her parents left, and anxiously awaited news.

She presently saw the man-servant running out of the house. Five

minutes later he returned with Widow Dentu, the nurse of the district.

Then there was a great commotion on the stairs as though they were

carrying a wounded person, and Julien came in and told Jeanne that she

might go back to her room.

She trembled as if she had witnessed some terrible accident. She sat

down again before the fire, and asked: "How is she?"

Julien, preoccupied and nervous, was pacing up and down the room. He

seemed to be getting angry, and did not reply at first. Then he

stopped and said: "What do you intend to do with this girl?"

She did not understand, and looked at her husband. "Why, what do you

mean? I do not know."

Then suddenly flying into a rage, he exclaimed: "We cannot keep a

bastard in the house."

Jeanne was very much bewildered, and said at the end of a long

silence: "But, my friend, perhaps we could put it out to nurse?"

He cut her short: "And who will pay the bill? You will, no doubt."

She reflected for some time, trying to find some way out of the

difficulty; at length she said: "Why, the father will take care of it,

of the child; and if he marries Rosalie, there will be no more

difficulty."

Julien, as though his patience were exhausted, replied furiously: "The

father!--the father!--do you know him--the father? No, is it not so?

Well then----?"

Jeanne, much affected, became excited: "But you certainly would not

let the girl go away like that. It would be cowardly! We will inquire

the name of the man, and we will go and find him, and he will have to

explain matters."

Julien had calmed down and resumed his pacing up and down. "My dear,"

he said, "she will not tell the name of the man; she will not tell you

any more than she will tell me--and, if he does not want her? ... We

cannot, however, keep a woman and her illegitimate child under our

roof, don't you understand?"

Jeanne, persistent, replied: "Then he must be a wretch, this man. But

we must certainly find out who it is, and then he will have us to deal

with."

Julien colored, became annoyed again, and said: "But--meanwhile----?"

She did not know what course to take, and asked: "What do you

propose?"

"Oh, I? That's very simple. I would give her some money and send her

to the devil with her brat."

The young wife, indignant, was disgusted with him. "That shall never

be," she said. "She is my foster-sister, that girl; we grew up

together. She has made a mistake, so much the worse; but I will not

cast her out of doors on that account; and, if it is necessary, I will

bring up the child."

Then Julien's wrath exploded: "And we should earn a fine reputation,

we, with our name and our position! And they would say of us

everywhere that we were protecting vice, harboring beggars; and decent

people would never set their foot inside our doors. What are you

thinking of? You must be crazy!"

She had remained quite calm. "I shall never cast off Rosalie; and if

you do not wish her to stay, my mother will take her; and we shall

surely succeed in finding out the name of the father of the child."

He left the room in exasperation, banging the door after him and

exclaiming: "What stupid ideas women have!"

In the afternoon Jeanne went up to see the patient. The little maid,

watched over by Widow Dentu, was lying still in her bed, her eyes wide

open, while the nurse held the new-born babe in her arms.

As soon as Rosalie perceived her mistress, she began to sob, hiding

her face in the covers and shaking with her sorrow. Jeanne wanted to

kiss her, but she avoided it by keeping her face covered. But the

nurse interfered, and drawing away the sheet, uncovered her face, and

she let Jeanne kiss her, weeping still, but more quietly.

A meagre fire was burning in the grate; the room was cold; the child

was crying. Jeanne did not dare to speak of the little one, for fear

of another attack, and she took her maid's hand as she said

mechanically: "It will not matter, it will not matter." The poor girl

glanced furtively at the nurse, and trembled as the infant cried, and

the remembrance of her sorrow came to her mind occasionally in a

convulsive sob, while suppressed tears choked her.

Jeanne kissed her again, and murmured softly in her ear: "We will take

good care of it, never fear, my girl." Then as she was beginning to

cry again, Jeanne made her escape.

She came to see her every day, and each time Rosalie burst into tears

at the sight of her mistress.

The child was put out to nurse at a neighbor's.

Julien, however, hardly spoke to his wife, as though he had nourished

anger against her ever since she refused to send away the maid. He

referred to the subject one day, but Jeanne took from her pocket a

letter from the baroness asking them to send the girl to them at once

if they would not keep her at the "Poplars." Julien, furious, cried:

"Your mother is as foolish as you are!" but he did not insist any

more.

Two weeks later the patient was able to get up and take up her work

again.

One morning, Jeanne made her sit down and, taking her hands and

looking steadfastly at her, she said:

"See here, my girl, tell me everything."

Rosalie began to tremble, and faltered:

"What, madame?"

"Whose is it, this child?"

The little maid was overcome with confusion, and she sought wildly to

withdraw her hands so as to hide her face. But Jeanne kissed her in

spite of herself, and consoled her, saying: "It is a misfortune, but

cannot be helped, my girl. You were weak, but that happens to many

others. If the father marries you, no one will think of it again."

Rosalie sighed as if she were suffering, and from time to time made an

effort to disengage herself and run away.

Jeanne resumed: "I understand perfectly that you are ashamed; but you

see that I am not angry, that I speak kindly to you. If I ask you the

name of the man it is for your own good, for I feel from your grief

that he has deserted you, and because I wish to prevent that. Julien

will go and look for him, you see, and we will oblige him to marry

you; and as we will employ you both, we will oblige him also to make

you happy."

This time Rosalie gave such a jerk that she snatched her hands away

from her mistress and ran off as if she were mad.

That evening at dinner Jeanne said to Julien: "I tried to persuade

Rosalie to tell me the name of her betrayer. I did not succeed. You

try to find out so that we can compel this miserable man to marry

her."

But Julien became angry: "Oh! you know I do not wish to hear anything

about it. You wish to keep this girl. Keep her, but do not bother me

about her."

Since the girl's illness he appeared to be more irritable than ever;

and he had got into the way of never speaking to his wife without

shouting as if he were in a rage, while she, on the contrary, would

lower her voice, be gentle and conciliating, to avoid all argument;

but she often wept at night after she went to bed.

In spite of his constant irritability, her husband had become more

affectionate than customary since their return.

Rosalie was soon quite well and less sad, although she appeared

terrified, pursued by some unknown fear, and she ran away twice when

Jeanne tried to question her again.

Julien all at once became more amiable, and the young wife, clinging

to vain hopes, also became more cheerful. The thaw had not yet set in

and a hard, smooth, glittering covering of snow extended over the

landscape. Neither men nor animals were to be seen; only the chimneys

of the cottages gave evidence of life in the smoke that ascended from

them into the icy air.

One evening the thermometer fell still lower, and Julien, shivering as

he left the table--for the dining-room was never properly heated, he

was so economical with the wood--rubbed his hands, murmuring: "It will

be warmer to-night, won't it, my dear?" He laughed with his jolly

laugh of former days, and Jeanne threw her arms around his neck: "I do

not feel well, dear; perhaps I shall be better to-morrow."

"As you wish, my dear. If you are ill you must take care of yourself."

And they began to talk of other things.

She retired early. Julien, for a wonder, had a fire lighted in her

room. As soon as he saw that it was burning brightly, he kissed his

wife on the forehead and left the room.

The whole house seemed to be penetrated by the cold; the very walls

seemed to be shivering, and Jeanne shivered in her bed. Twice she got

up to put fresh logs on the fire and to look for dresses, skirts, and

other garments which she piled on the bed. Nothing seemed to warm her;

her feet were numbed and her lower limbs seemed to tingle, making her

excessively nervous and restless.

Then her teeth began to chatter, her hands shook, there was a

tightness in her chest, her heart began to beat with hard, dull

pulsations, and at times seemed to stop beating, and she gasped for

breath. A terrible apprehension seized her, while the cold seemed to

penetrate to her marrow. She never had felt such a sensation, she had

never seemed to lose her hold on life like this before, never been so

near her last breath.

"I am going to die," she thought, "I am dying----"

And filled with terror, she jumped out of bed, rang for Rosalie,

waited, rang again, waited again, shivering and frozen.

The little maid did not come. She was doubtless asleep, that first,

sound sleep that nothing can disturb. Jeanne, in despair, darted

toward the stairs in her bare feet, and groping her way, she ascended

the staircase quietly, found the door, opened it, and called,

"Rosalie!" She went forward, stumbled against the bed, felt all over

it with her hands and found that it was empty. It was empty and cold,

and as if no one had slept there. Much surprised, she said: "What! Has

she gone out in weather like this?"

But as her heart began to beat tumultuously till she seemed to be

suffocating, she went downstairs again with trembling limbs in order

to wake Julien. She rushed into his room filled with the idea that she

was going to die, and longing to see him before she lost

consciousness.

By the light of the dying embers she perceived Rosalie's head leaning

on her husband's shoulder.

At the cry she gave they both started to their feet; she stood

motionless for a second, horrified at this discovery, and then fled to

her room; and when Julien, at his wit's end, called "Jeanne!" she was

seized with an overmastering terror of seeing him, of hearing his

voice, of listening to him explaining, lying, of meeting his gaze; and

she darted toward the stairs again and went down.

She now ran along in the darkness, at the risk of falling downstairs,

at the risk of breaking her neck on the stone floor of the hall. She

rushed along, impelled by an imperious desire to flee, to know nothing

about it, to see no one.

When she was at the bottom of the stairs she sat down on one of the

steps, still in her nightdress, and in bare feet, and remained in a

dazed condition. She heard Julien moving and walking about. She

started to her feet in order to escape him. He was starting to come

downstairs and called: "Listen, Jeanne!"

No, she would not listen nor let him touch her with the tips of his

fingers; and she darted into the dining-room as if she were fleeing

from an assassin. She looked for a door of escape, a hiding place, a

dark corner, some way of avoiding him. She hid under the table. But he

was already at the door, a candle in his hand, still calling:

"Jeanne!" She started off again like a hare, darted into the kitchen,

ran round it twice like a trapped animal, and as he came near her, she

suddenly opened the door into the garden and darted out into the

night.

The contact with the snow, into which she occasionally sank up to her

knees, seemed to give her the energy of despair. She did not feel

cold, although she had little on. She felt nothing, her body was so

numbed from the emotion of her mind, and she ran along as white as the

snow.

She followed the large avenue, crossed the wood, crossed the ditch,

and started off across the plain.

There was no moon, the stars were shining like sparks of fire in the

black sky; but the plain was light with a dull whiteness, and lay in

infinite silence.

Jeanne walked quickly, hardly breathing, not knowing, not thinking of

anything. She suddenly stopped on the edge of the cliff. She stopped

short, instinctively, and crouched down, bereft of thought and of will

power.

In the abyss before her the silent, invisible sea exhaled the salt

odor of its wrack at low tide.

She remained thus some time, her mind as inert as her body; then, all

at once, she began to tremble, to tremble violently, like a sail

shaken by the wind. Her arms, her hands, her feet, impelled by an

invisible force, throbbed, pulsated wildly, and her consciousness

awakened abruptly, sharp and poignant.

Old memories passed before her mental vision: the sail with him in

Père Lastique's boat, their conversation, his nascent love, the

christening of the boat; then she went back, further back, to that

night of dreams when she first came to the "Poplars." And now! And

now! Oh, her life was shipwrecked, all joy was ended, all

expectation at an end; and the frightful future full of torture, of

deception, and of despair appeared before her. Better to die, it would

all be over at once.

But a voice cried in the distance: "Here it is, here are her steps;

quick, quick, this way!" It was Julien who was looking for her.

Oh! she did not wish to see him again. In the abyss down yonder before

her she now heard a slight sound, the indistinct ripple of the waves

over the rocks. She rose to her feet with the idea of throwing herself

over the cliff and bidding life farewell. Like one in despair, she

uttered the last word of the dying, the last word of the young soldier

slain in battle: "Mother!"

All at once the thought of little mother came to her mind, she saw her

sobbing, she saw her father on his knees before her mangled remains,

and in a second she felt all the pain of their sorrow.

She sank down again into the snow; and when Julien and old Simon,

followed by Marius, carrying a lantern, seized her arm to pull her

back as she was so close to the brink, she made no attempt to escape.

She let them do as they would, for she could not stir. She felt that

they were carrying her, and then that she was being put to bed and

rubbed with hot cloths; then she became unconscious.

Then she had a nightmare, or was it a nightmare? She was in bed. It

was broad daylight, but she could not get up. Why? She did not know.

Then she heard a little noise on the floor, a sort of scratching, a

rustling, and suddenly a mouse, a little gray mouse, ran quickly

across the sheet. Another followed it, then a third, who ran toward

her chest with his little, quick scamper. Jeanne was not afraid, and

she reached out her hand to catch the animal, but could not catch it.

Then other mice, ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, rose up on all

sides of her. They climbed the bedposts, ran up the tapestries,

covered the bed completely. And soon they got beneath the covers;

Jeanne felt them gliding over her skin, tickling her limbs, running up

and down her body. She saw them running from the bottom of the bed to

get into her neck under the sheets; and she tried to fight them off,

throwing her hands out to try and catch them, but always finding them

empty.

She was frantic, wanted to escape, screamed, and it seemed as if she

were being held down, as if strong arms enfolded her and rendered her

helpless; but she saw no one.

She had no idea of time. It must have been long, a very long time.

Then she awoke, weary, aching, but quiet. She felt weak, very weak.

She opened her eyes and was not surprised to see little mother seated

in her room with a man whom she did not know.

How old was she? She did not know, and thought she was a very little

girl. She had no recollection of anything.

The big man said: "Why, she has regained consciousness." Little mother

began to weep. Then the big man resumed: "Come, be calm, baroness; I

can ensure her recovery now. But do not talk to her at all. Let her

sleep, let her sleep."

Then it seemed to Jeanne that she remained in a state of exhaustion

for a long time, overcome by a heavy sleep as soon as she tried to

think; and she tried not to remember anything whatever, as though she

had a vague fear that the reality might come back to her.

Once when she awoke she saw Julien, alone, standing beside her; and

suddenly it all came back to her, as if the curtain which hid her past

life had been raised.

She felt a horrible pain in her heart, and wanted to escape once more.

She threw back the coverlets, jumped to the floor and fell down, her

limbs being too weak to support her.

Julien sprang toward her, and she began to scream for him not to touch

her. She writhed and rolled on the floor. The door opened. Aunt Lison

came running in with Widow Dentu, then the baron, and finally little

mother, puffing and distracted.

They put her back into bed, and she immediately closed her eyes, so as

to escape talking and be able to think quietly.

Her mother and aunt watched over her anxiously, saying: "Do you hear

us now, Jeanne, my little Jeanne?"

She pretended to be deaf, not to hear them, and did not answer. Night

came on and the nurse took up her position beside the bed. She did not

sleep; she kept trying to think of things that had escaped her memory

as though there were holes in it, great white empty places where

events had not been noted down.

Little by little she began to recall the facts, and she pondered over

them steadily.

Little mother, Aunt Lison, the baron had come, so she must have been

very ill. But Julien? What had he said? Did her parents know? And

Rosalie, where was she? And what should she do? What should she do? An

idea came to her--she would return to Rouen and live with father and

little mother as in old days. She would be a widow; that's all.

Then she waited, listening to what was being said around her,

understanding everything without letting them see it, rejoiced at her

returning reason, patient and crafty.

That evening, at last, she found herself alone with the baroness and

called to her in a low tone: "Little Mother!" Her own voice astonished

her, it seemed strange. The baroness seized her hands: "My daughter,

my darling Jeanne! My child, do you recognize me?"

"Yes, little mother, but you must not weep; we have a great deal to

talk about. Did Julien tell you why I ran away in the snow?"

"Yes, my darling, you had a very dangerous fever."

"It was not that, mamma. I had the fever afterward; but did he tell

you what gave me the fever and why I ran away?"

"No, my dearie."

"It was because I found Rosalie in his room."

Her mother thought she was delirious again and soothed her, saying:

"Go to sleep, darling, calm yourself, try to sleep."

But Jeanne, persistent, continued: "I am quite sensible now, little

mother. I am not talking wildly as I must have done these last days. I

felt ill one night and I went to look for Julien. Rosalie was with him

in his room. I did not know what I was doing, for sorrow, and I ran

out into the snow to throw myself off the cliff."

But the baroness reiterated, "Yes, darling, you have been very ill,

very ill."

"It is not that, mamma. I found Rosalie in with Julien, and I will not

live with him any longer. You will take me back with you to Rouen to

live as we used to do."

The baroness, whom the doctor had warned not to thwart Jeanne in any

way, replied: "Yes, my darling."

But the invalid grew impatient: "I see that you do not believe me. Go

and fetch little father, he will soon understand."

The baroness left the room and presently returned, leaning on her

husband's arm. They sat down beside the bed and Jeanne began to talk.

She told them all, quietly, in a weak voice, but clearly; all about

Julien's peculiar character, his harshness, his avarice, and, finally,

his infidelity.

When she had finished, the baron saw that she was not delirious, but

he did not know what to think, what to determine, or what to answer.

He took her hand, tenderly, as he used to do when he put her to sleep

with stories, and said: "Listen, dearie, we must act with prudence. We

must do nothing rash. Try to put up with your husband until we can

come to some decision--promise me this?"

"I will try, but I will not stay here after I get well," she replied.

Then she added in a lower tone: "Where is Rosalie now?"

"You will not see her any more," replied the baron. But she persisted:

"Where is she? I wish to know." Then he confessed that she had not

left the house, but declared that she was going to leave.

On leaving the room the baron, filled with indignation and wounded in

his feelings as a father, went to look for Julien, and said to him

abruptly: "Sir, I have come to ask you for an explanation of your

conduct toward my daughter. You have been unfaithful to her with your

maid, which is a double insult."

Julien pretended to be innocent, denied everything positively, swore,

took God as his witness. What proof had they? he asked. Was not Jeanne

delirious? Had she not had brain fever? Had she not run out in the

snow, in an attack of delirium, at the very beginning of her illness?

And it was just at this time, when she was running about the house

almost naked, that she pretends that she saw her maid in her husband's

room!

And he grew angry, threatened a lawsuit, became furious. The baron,

bewildered, made excuses, begged his pardon, and held out his loyal

hand to Julien, who refused to take it.

When Jeanne heard what her husband had said, she did not show any

annoyance, but replied: "He is lying, papa, but we shall end by

convicting him."

For some days she remained taciturn and reserved, thinking over

matters. The third morning she asked to see Rosalie. The baron refused

to send her up, saying she had left. Jeanne persisted, saying: "Well,

let some one go and fetch her."

She was beginning to get excited when the doctor came. They told him

everything, so that he could form an opinion. But Jeanne suddenly

burst into tears, her nerves all unstrung, and almost screamed: "I

want Rosalie; I wish to see her!"

The doctor took hold of her hand and said in a low tone: "Calm

yourself, madame; any emotion may lead to serious consequences, for

you are enceinte."

She was dumfounded, as though she had received a blow; and it seemed

to her that she felt the first stirrings of life within her. Then she

was silent, not even listening to what was being said, absorbed in her

own thoughts. She could not sleep that night for thinking of the new

life that was developing in her, and was sad at the thought that it

was Julien's child, and might resemble him. The following morning she

sent for the baron. "Little father," she said, "my resolution is

formed; I wish to know everything, and especially just now; you

understand, I insist, and you know that you must not thwart me in my

present condition. Listen! You must go and get M. le Curé. I need him

here to keep Rosalie from telling a lie. Then, as soon as he comes,

send him up to me, and you stay downstairs with little mother. And,

above all things, see that Julien does not suspect anything."

An hour later the priest came, looking fatter than ever, and puffing

like the baroness. He sat down in an arm-chair and began to joke,

wiping his forehead as usual with his plaid handkerchief. "Well,

baroness, I do not think we grow any thinner; I think we make a good

pair." Then, turning toward the patient, he said: "Eh, what is this I

hear, young lady, that we are soon to have a fresh baptism? Aha, it

will not be a boat this time." And in a graver tone he added: "It will

be a defender of the country; unless"--after a moment's reflection--it

"should be the prospective mother of a family, like you, madame,"

bowing to the baroness.

The door at the end of the room opened and Rosalie appeared, beside

herself, weeping, refusing to enter the room, clinging to the door

frame, and being pushed forward by the baron. Quite out of patience,

he thrust her into the room. She covered her face with her hands and

remained standing there, sobbing.

Jeanne, as soon as she saw her, rose to a sitting posture, whiter than

the sheets, and with her heart beating wildly. She could not speak,

could hardly breathe. At length she said, in a voice broken with

emotion: "I--I--will not--need--to question you. It--it is enough for

me to see you thus--to--to see your--your shame in my presence."

After a pause, for she was out of breath, she continued: "I had M. le

Curé come, so that it might be like a confession, you understand."

Rosalie, motionless, uttered little cries that were almost screams

behind her hands.

The baron, whose anger was gaining ground, seized her arms, and

snatching her hands from her face, he threw her on her knees beside

the bed, saying: "Speak! Answer!"

She remained on the ground, in the position assigned to Magdalens, her

cap awry, her apron on the floor, and her face again covered by her

hands.

Then the priest said: "Come, my girl, listen to what is said to you,

and reply. We do not want to harm you, but we want to know what

occurred."

Jeanne, leaning over, looked at her and said: "Is it true that you

were with Julien when I surprised you?"

Rosalie moaned through her fingers, "Yes, madame."

Then the baroness suddenly began to cry in a choking fashion, and her

convulsive sobs accompanied those of Rosalie.

Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the maid, said: "How long had this been

going on?"

"Ever since he came here," faltered Rosalie.

Jeanne could not understand. "Ever since he came--then--ever

since--ever since the spring?"

"Yes, madame."

"Ever since he came into this house?"

"Yes, madame."

And Jeanne, as if overflowing with questions, asked, speaking

precipitately:

"But how did it happen? How did he approach you? How did he persuade

you? What did he say? When, how did you ever yield to him? How could

you ever have done it?"

Rosalie, removing her hands from her face, and overwhelmed also with a

feverish desire to speak, said:

"How do I know, myself? It was the day he dined here for the first

time, and he came up to my room. He had hidden himself in the loft. I

did not dare to scream for fear of making a scandal. I no longer knew

what I was doing. Then I said nothing because I liked him."

Then Jeanne exclaimed with almost a scream:

"But--your--your child--is his child?"

Rosalie sobbed.

"Yes, madame."

Then they were both silent. The only sound to be heard was the sobs of

Rosalie and of the baroness.

Jeanne, quite overcome, felt her tears also beginning to flow; and

they fell silently down her cheeks.

The maid's child had the same father, as her child! Her anger was at

an end; she now was filled with a dreary, slow, profound and infinite

despair. She presently resumed in a changed, tearful voice, the voice

of a woman who has been crying:

"When we returned from--from down there--from our journey--when did he

begin again?"

The little maid, who had sunk down on the floor, faltered: "The first

evening."

Each word wrung Jeanne's heart. So on the very first night of their

return to the "Poplars" he left her for this girl. That was why he

wanted to sleep alone!

She now knew all she wanted to know, and exclaimed: "Go away, go

away!" And as Rosalie, perfectly crushed, did not stir, Jeanne called

to her father: "Take her away, carry her away!" The priest, who had

said nothing as yet, thought that the moment had arrived for him to

preach a little sermon.

"What you have done is very wrong, my daughter, very wrong, and God

will not pardon you so easily. Consider the hell that awaits you if

you do not always act right. Now that you have a child you must behave

yourself. No doubt madame la baronne will do something for you, and we

will find you a husband."

He would have continued speaking, but the baron, having again seized

Rosalie by the shoulders, raised her from the floor and dragged her to

the door, and threw her like a package into the corridor. As he turned

back into the room, looking paler than his daughter, the priest

resumed: "What can one do? They are all like that in the district. It

is shocking, but cannot be helped, and then one must be a little

indulgent toward the weaknesses of our nature. They never get married

until they have become enceinte, never, madame." He added, smiling:

"One might call it a local custom. So, you see, monsieur, your maid

did as all the rest do."

But the baron, who was trembling with nervousness, interrupted him,

saying, "She! what do I care about her! It is Julien with whom I am

indignant. It is infamous, the way he has behaved, and I shall take my

daughter away."

He walked up and down excitedly, becoming more and more exasperated:

"It is infamous to have betrayed my child, infamous! He is a wretch,

this man, a cad, a wretch! and I will tell him so. I will slap his

face. I will give him a horsewhipping!"

The priest, who was slowly taking a pinch of snuff, seated beside the

baroness still in tears, and endeavoring to fulfill his office of a

peacemaker, said: "Come, monsieur le baron, between ourselves, he has

done what every one else does. Do you know many husbands who are

faithful?" And he added with a sly good humor: "Come now, I wager that

you have had your turn. Your hand on your heart, am I right?" The

baron had stopped in astonishment before the priest, who continued:

"Why, yes, you did just as others did. Who knows if you did not make

love to a little sugar plum like that? I tell you that every one does.

Your wife was none the less happy, or less loved; am I not right?"

The baron had not stirred, he was much disturbed. What the priest said

was true, and he had sinned as much as any one and had not hesitated

when his wife's maids were in question. Was he a wretch on that

account? Why should he judge Julien's conduct so severely when his own

had not been above blame?

The baroness, still struggling with her sobs, smiled faintly at the

recollection of her husband's escapades, for she belonged to the

sentimental class for whom love adventures are a part of existence.

Jeanne, exhausted, lay with wide-open eyes, absorbed in painful

reflection. Something Rosalie had said had wounded her as though an

arrow had pierced her heart: "As for me, I said nothing, because I

liked him."

She had liked him also, and that was the only reason why she had given

herself, bound herself for life to him, why she had renounced

everything else, all her cherished plans, all the unknown future. She

had fallen into this marriage, into this hole without any edges by

which one could climb out, into this wretchedness, this sadness, this

despair, because, like Rosalie, she had liked him!

The door was pushed violently open and Julien appeared, with a furious

expression on his face. He had caught sight of Rosalie moaning on the

stairs, and suspected that something was up, that the maid had

probably told all. The sight of the priest riveted him to the spot.

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a trembling but quiet tone.

The baron, so violent a short while ago, did not venture to speak,

afraid of the priest's remarks, and of what his son-in-law might say

in the same strain. Little mother was weeping more copiously than

ever; but Jeanne had raised herself with her hands and looked,

breathing quickly, at the one who had caused her such cruel sorrow.

She stammered out: "The fact is, we know all, all your rascality

since--since the day you first entered this house--we know that the

child of this maid is your child, just as--as--mine is--they will be

brothers." Overcome with sorrow at this thought, she buried herself in

the sheets and wept bitterly.

Julien stood there gaping, not knowing what to say or do. The priest

came to the rescue.

"Come, come, do not give way like that, my dear young lady, be

sensible." He rose, approached the bed and placed his warm hand on the

despairing girl's forehead. This seemed to soothe her strangely. She

felt quieted, as if this strong peasant's hand, accustomed to the

gesture of absolution, to kindly consolations, had conveyed by its

touch some mysterious solace.

The good man, still standing, continued: "Madame, we must always

forgive. A great sorrow has come to you; but God in His mercy has

balanced it by a great happiness, since you will become a mother. This

child will be your comfort. In his name I implore you, I adjure you to

forgive M. Julien's error. It will be a new bond between you, a pledge

of his future fidelity. Can you remain apart in your heart from him

whose child you bear?"

She did not reply, crushed, mortified, exhausted as she was, without

even strength for anger or resentment. Her nerves seemed relaxed,

almost severed, she seemed to be scarcely alive.

The baroness, who seemed incapable of resentment, and whose mind was

unequal to prolonged effort, murmured: "Come, come, Jeanne."

Then the priest took the hand of the young man and leading him up to

the bed, he placed his hand in that of his wife, and gave it a little

tap as though to unite them more closely. Then laying aside his

professional tone and manner, he said with a satisfied air: "Well,

now, that's done. Believe me, that is the best thing to do." The two

hands, joined for a moment, separated immediately. Julien, not daring

to kiss Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law on the forehead, turned on

his heel, took the arm of the baron, who acquiesced, happy at heart

that the thing had been settled thus, and they went out together to

smoke a cigar.

The patient, overcome, dozed off, while the priest and little mother

talked in a low tone.

The priest explained and propounded his ideas, to which the baroness

assented by nodding her head. He said in conclusion: "Well, then, that

is understood; you will give this girl the Barville farm, and I will

undertake to find her a husband, a good, steady fellow. Oh! with a

property worth twenty thousand francs we shall have no lack of

suitors. There will be more than enough to choose from."

The baroness was smiling now, quite happy, with the remains of two

tears that had dried on her cheeks.

She repeated: "That is settled. Barville is worth at least twenty

thousand francs, but it will be settled on the child, the parents

having the use of it during their lifetime."

The curé rose, shook little mother's hand, saying: "Do not disturb

yourself, Madame la Baronne, do not disturb yourself; I know what an

effort it is."

As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. She

noticed nothing; they told her nothing; and she knew nothing, as

usual.

CHAPTER VIII

MATERNITY

Rosalie had left the house. Jeanne felt no joy at the thought of being

a mother, she had had so much sorrow. She awaited the advent of her

child without curiosity, still filled with the apprehension of unknown

misfortunes.

A big woman, big as a house, had taken Rosalie's place and supported

the baroness in her monotonous walks along her avenue. The baron gave

his arm to Jeanne, who was now always ailing, while Aunt Lison,

uneasy, and busied about the approaching event, held her other hand,

bewildered at this mystery which she would never know.

They all walked along like this almost in silence for hours at a time,

while Julien was riding about the country on horseback, having

suddenly acquired this taste. Nothing ever came to disturb their

dreary life. The baron, his wife, and the vicomte paid a visit to the

Fourvilles, whom Julien seemed to be already well acquainted with,

without one knowing just how. Another ceremonious visit was exchanged

with the Brisevilles, who were still hidden in their manor house.

One afternoon, about four o'clock, two persons, a lady and gentleman

on horseback, rode up into the courtyard of the château. Julien,

greatly excited, ran up to Jeanne's room. "Quick, quick, come

downstairs; here are the Fourvilles. They have just come as neighbors,

knowing your condition. Tell them that I have gone out, but that I

will be back. I will just go and make myself presentable."

Jeanne, much surprised, went downstairs. A pale, pretty young woman

with a sad face, dreamy eyes, and lustreless, fair hair, looking as

though the sunlight had never kissed it, quietly introduced her

husband, a kind of giant, or ogre with a large red mustache. She

added: "We have several times had the pleasure of meeting M. de

Lamare. We heard from him how you were suffering, and we would not put

off coming to see you as neighbors, without any ceremony. You see that

we came on horseback. I also had the pleasure the other day of a visit

from madame, your mother, and the baron."

She spoke with perfect ease, familiar but refined. Jeanne was charmed,

and fell in love with her at once. "This is a friend," she thought.

The Comte de Fourville, on the contrary, seemed like a bear in the

drawing-room. As soon as he was seated, he placed his hat on the chair

next him, did not know what to do with his hands, placed them on his

knees, then on the arms of the chair, and finally crossed his fingers

as if in prayer.

Suddenly Julien entered the room. Jeanne was amazed and did not

recognize him. He was shaved. He looked handsome, elegant, and

attractive as on the day of their betrothal. He shook the comte's

hairy paw, kissed the hand of the comtesse, whose ivory cheeks colored

up slightly while her eyelids quivered.

He began to speak; he was charming as in former days. His large eyes,

the mirrors of love, had become tender again. And his hair, lately so

dull and unkempt, had regained its soft, glossy wave, with the use of

a hairbrush and perfumed oil.

At the moment that the Fourvilles were taking their leave the

comtesse, turning toward him, said: "Would you like to take a ride on

Thursday, dear vicomte?"

As he bowed and murmured, "Why, certainly, madame," she took Jeanne's

hand and said in a sympathetic and affectionate tone, with a cordial

smile: "Oh! when you are well, we will all three gallop about the

country. It will be delightful. What do you say?"

With an easy gesture she held up her riding skirt and then jumped into

the saddle with the lightness of a bird, while her husband, after

bowing awkwardly, mounted his big Norman steed. As they disappeared

outside the gate, Julien, who seemed charmed, exclaimed: "What

delightful people! those are friends who may be useful to us."

Jeanne, pleased also without knowing why, replied: "The little

comtesse is charming, I feel that I shall love her, but the husband

looks like a brute. Where did you meet them?"

He rubbed his hands together good humoredly. "I met them by chance at

the Brisevilles'. The husband seems a little rough. He cares for

nothing but hunting, but he is a real noble for all that."

The dinner was almost cheerful, as though some secret happiness had

come into the house.

Nothing new happened until the latter days of July, when Jeanne was

taken ill. As she seemed to grow worse, the doctor was sent for and at

the first glance recognized the symptoms of a premature confinement.

Her sufferings presently abated a little, but she was filled with a

terrible anguish, a despairing sinking, something like a presentiment,

the mysterious touch of death. It is in these moments when it comes so

near to us that its breath chills our hearts.

The room was full of people. Little mother, buried in an armchair, was

choking with grief. The baron, his hands trembling, ran hither and

thither, carrying things, consulting the doctor and losing his head.

Julien paced up and down, looking concerned, but perfectly calm, and

Widow Dentu stood at the foot of the bed with an appropriate

expression, the expression of a woman of experience whom nothing

astonishes. The cook, Ludivine, and Aunt Lison remained discreetly

concealed behind the door of the lobby.

Toward morning Jeanne became worse, and as her involuntary screams

escaped from between her closed teeth, she thought incessantly of

Rosalie, who had not suffered, who had hardly moaned, who had borne

her child without suffering and without difficulty, and in her

wretched and troubled mind she continually compared their conditions

and cursed God, whom she had formerly thought to be just. She rebelled

at the wicked partiality of fate and at the wicked lies of those who

preach justice and goodness.

At times her sufferings were so great that her mind was a blank. She

had neither strength, life nor knowledge for anything but suffering.

All at once her sufferings ceased. The nurse and the doctor leaned

over her and gave her all attention. Presently she heard a little cry

and, in spite of her weakness, she unconsciously held out her arms.

She was suddenly filled with joy, with a glimpse of a new-found

happiness which had just unfolded. Her child was born, she was

soothed, happy, happy as she never yet had been. Her heart and her

body revived; she was now a mother. She felt that she was saved,

secure from all despair, for she had here something to love.

From now on she had but one thought--her child. She was a fanatical

mother, all the more intense because she had been deceived in her

love, deceived in her hopes. She would sit whole days beside the

window, rocking the little cradle.

The baron and little mother smiled at this excess of tenderness, but

Julien, whose habitual routine had been interfered with and his

overweening importance diminished by the arrival of this noisy and

all-powerful tyrant, unconsciously jealous of this mite of a man who

had usurped his place in the house, kept on saying angrily and

impatiently: "How wearisome she is with her brat!"

She became so obsessed by this affection that she would pass the

entire night beside the cradle, watching the child asleep. As she was

becoming exhausted by this morbid life, taking no rest, growing weaker

and thinner and beginning to cough, the doctor ordered the child to be

taken from her. She got angry, wept, implored, but they were deaf to

her entreaties. His nurse took him every evening, and each night his

mother would rise, and in her bare feet go to the door, listen at the

keyhole to see if he was sleeping quietly, did not wake up and wanted

nothing.

Julien found her here one night when he came home late, after dining

with the Fourvilles. After that they locked her in her room to oblige

her to stay in bed.

The baptism took place at the end of August. The baron was godfather

and Aunt Lison godmother. The child was named Pierre-Simon-Paul and

called Paul for short.

At the beginning of September Aunt Lison left without any commotion.

Her absence was as little felt as her presence.

One evening after dinner the priest appeared. He seemed embarrassed as

if he were burdened by some mystery, and after some idle remarks, he

asked the baroness and her husband to grant him a short interview in

private.

They all three walked slowly down the long avenue, talking with

animation, while Julien, who was alone with Jeanne, was astonished,

disturbed and annoyed at this secret.

He accompanied the priest when he took his leave, and they went off

together toward the church where the Angelus was ringing.

As it was cool, almost cold, the others went into the drawing-room.

They were all dozing when Julien came in abruptly, his face red,

looking very indignant.

From the door he called out to his parents-in-law, without remembering

that Jeanne was there: "Are you crazy, for God's sake! to go and throw

away twenty thousand francs on that girl?"

No one replied, they were so astonished. He continued, bellowing with

rage: "How can one be so stupid as that? Do you wish to leave us

without a sou?"

The baron, who had recovered his composure, attempted to stop him:

"Keep still! Remember that you are speaking before your wife."

But Julien was trembling with excitement: "As if I cared; she knows

all about it, anyway. It is robbing her."

Jeanne, bewildered, looked at him without understanding. She faltered:

"What in the world is the matter?"

Julien then turned toward her, to try and get her on his side as a

partner who has been cheated out of an unexpected fortune. He

hurriedly told her about the conspiracy to marry off Rosalie and about

the gift of the Barville property, which was worth at least twenty

thousand francs. He said: "Your parents are crazy, my dear, crazy

enough to be shut up! Twenty thousand francs! twenty thousand francs!

Why, they have lost their heads! Twenty thousand francs for a

bastard!"

Jeanne listened without emotion and without anger, astonished at her

own calmness, indifferent now to everything but her own child.

The baron was raging, but could find nothing to say. He finally burst

forth and, stamping his foot, exclaimed: "Think of what you are

saying; it is disgusting. Whose fault was it if we had to give this

girl-mother a dowry? Whose child is it? You would like to abandon it

now!"

Julien, amazed at the baron's violence, looked at him fixedly. He then

resumed in a calmer tone: "But fifteen hundred francs would be quite

enough. They all have children before they are legally married. It

makes no difference whose child it is, in any case. Instead of giving

one of your farms, to the value of twenty thousand francs, in addition

to making the world aware of what has happened, you should, to say the

least, have had some regard for our name and our position."

He spoke in a severe tone like a man who stood on his rights and was

convinced of the logic of his argument. The baron, disturbed at this

unexpected discussion, stood there gaping at him. Julien then, seeing

his advantage, concluded: "Happily, nothing has yet been settled. I

know the young fellow who is going to marry her. He is an honest chap

and we can make a satisfactory arrangement with him. I will take

charge of the matter."

And he went out immediately, fearing no doubt to continue the

discussion, and pleased that he had had the last word, a proof, he

thought, that they acquiesced in his views.

As soon as he had left the room, however, the baron exclaimed: "Oh,

that is going too far, much too far!"

But Jeanne, happening to look up at her father's bewildered face,

began to laugh with her clear, ringing laugh of former days, when

anything amused her. She said: "Father, father, did you hear the tone

in which he said: 'Twenty thousand francs?'"

Little mother, whose mirth was as ready as her tears, as she recalled

her son-in-law's angry expression, his indignant exclamations and his

refusal to allow the girl whom he had led astray to be given money

that did not belong to him, delighted also at Jeanne's mirth, gave way

to little bursts of laughter till the tears came to her eyes. The

baron caught the contagion, and all three laughed to kill themselves

as they used to do in the good old days.

As soon as they quieted down a little Jeanne said: "How strange it is

that all this does not affect me. I look upon him now as a stranger.

I cannot believe that I am his wife. You see how I can laugh at

his--his--want of delicacy."

And without knowing why they all three embraced each other, smiling

and happy.

Two days later, after breakfast, just as Julien had started away from

the house on horseback, a strapping young fellow from twenty-one to

twenty-five years old, clad in a brand-new blue blouse with wide

sleeves buttoning at the wrist, slyly jumped over the gate, as though

he had been there awaiting his opportunity all the morning, crept

along the Couillards' ditch, came round the château, and cautiously

approached the baron and his wife, who were still sitting under the

plane-tree.

He took off his cap and advanced, bowing in an awkward manner. As soon

as he was close to them he said: "Your servant, Monsieur le Baron,

madame and the company." Then, as no one replied, he said: "It is I, I

am Desiré Lecocq."

As the name conveyed nothing to them, the baron asked, "What do you

want?"

Then, altogether upset at the necessity of explaining himself, the

young fellow stuttered out as he gazed alternately at his cap, which

he held in his hands, and at the roof of the château: "It was M'sieu

le Curé who said something to me about this matter----" And then he

stopped, fearing he might say too much and compromise his own

interests.

The other, lowering his voice, blurted out: "That matter of your

maid--Rosalie----"

Jeanne, who had guessed what was coming, had risen and moved away with

her infant in her arms.

"Come nearer," said the baron, pointing to the chair his daughter had

just left. The peasant sat down, murmuring: "You are very good." Then

he waited as though he had no more to say. After a long silence, he

screwed up courage, and looking up at the sky, remarked: "There's fine

weather for the time of year. But the earth will be none the better

for it, as the seed is already sown." And then he was silent again.

The baron was growing impatient. He plunged right into the subject and

said drily: "Then it is you who are going to marry Rosalie?"

The man at once became uneasy, his Norman caution being on the alert.

He replied with more animation, but with a tinge of defiance: "That

depends; perhaps yes, perhaps no; it depends."

The baron, annoyed at this hedging, exclaimed angrily: "Answer

frankly, damn it! Was this what you came here for? Yes or no! Will you

marry her? Yes or no!"

The bewildered man looked steadfastly at his feet: "If it is as M'sieu

le Curé said, I will take her, but if it is as M'sieu Julien said, I

will not take her."

"What did M. Julien tell you?"

"M'sieu Julien told me fifteen hundred francs and M'sieu le Curé told

me that I should have twenty thousand. I will do it for twenty

thousand, but I will not do it for fifteen hundred."

The baroness, who was buried in her easy chair, began to giggle at the

anxious expression of the peasant, who, not understanding this

frivolity, glanced at her angrily out of the corner of his eye and

waited in silence.

The baron, who was embarrassed at this bargaining, cut it short by

saying: "I told M. le Curé that you should have the Barville farm

during your lifetime and that then it would revert to the child. It is

worth twenty thousand francs. I do not go back on my word. Is it

settled? Yes or no!"

The man smiled with a humble and satisfied expression, and suddenly

becoming loquacious, said: "Oh, in that case, I will not say no. That

was all that stood in my way. When M'sieu le Curé spoke to me, I was

ready at once, by gosh! and I was very pleased to accommodate the

baron who was giving me that. I said to myself, 'Is it not true that

when people are willing to do each other favors, they can always find

a way and can make it worth while?' But M'sieu Julien came to see me,

and it was only fifteen hundred francs. I said to myself: 'I must see

about that,' and so I came here. That is not to say that I did not

trust you, but I wanted to know. Short accounts make long friends. Is

not that true, M'sieu le Baron?"

The baron interrupted him by asking, "When do you wish to get

married?"

The man became timid again, very much embarrassed, and finally said,

hesitatingly: "I will not do it until I get a little paper."

This time the baron got angry: "Doggone it! you will have the marriage

contract. That is the best kind of paper."

But the peasant was stubborn: "Meanwhile I might take a little turn;

it will not be dark for a while."

The baron rose to make an end of the matter: "Answer yes or no at

once. If you do not wish her, say so; I have another suitor."

The fear of a rival terrified the crafty Norman. He suddenly made up

his mind and held out his hand, as after buying a cow, saying: "Put it

there, M'sieu le Baron; it is a bargain. Whoever draws back is a

skunk!"

The baron shook his hand, then called out: "Ludivine!" The cook

appeared at the window. "Bring us a bottle of wine." They clinked

glasses to seal the matter and the young peasant went off with a light

tread.

Nothing was said to Julien about this visit. The contract was drawn up

with all secrecy and as soon as the banns were published the wedding

took place one Monday morning.

A neighbor carried the child to church, walking behind the bride and

groom, as a sure sign of good luck. And no one in all the district was

surprised; they simply envied Desiré Lecocq. "He was born with a

caul," they said, with a sly smile into which there entered no

resentment.

Julien was terribly angry and made such a scene that his parents-in-law

cut short their visit to the "Poplars." Jeanne was only moderately

sad at their departure, for little Paul had become for her an

inexhaustible source of happiness.

CHAPTER IX

DEATH OF LA BARONNE

As Jeanne's health was quite restored, they determined to go and

return the Fourvilles' visit and also to call on the Marquis de

Coutelier.

Julien had bought at a sale a new one-horse phaeton, so that they

could go out twice a month. They set out one fine December morning,

and after driving for two hours across the plains of Normandy, they

began to descend a little slope into a little valley, the sides of

which were wooded, while the valley itself was cultivated. After an

abrupt turn in the valley they saw the Château of Vrillette, a wooded

slope on one side of it and a large pond on the other, out of which

rose one of its walls and which was bounded by a wood of tall pine

trees that formed the other side of the valley.

Julien explained all the portions of the building to Jeanne, like one

who knows his subject thoroughly, and went into raptures over its

beauty, adding; "It is full of game, this country. The comte loves to

hunt here. This is a true seignorial residence."

The hall door was opened and the pale comtesse appeared, coming

forward to meet the visitors, all smiles, and wearing a long-trained

dress, like a chatelaine of olden times. She looked a fitting lady of

the lake, born to inhabit this fairy castle.

The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands, as if she had known her all her

life, and made her sit down beside her in a low chair, while Julien,

all of whose forgotten elegance seemed to have revived within the past

five months, chatted and smiled quietly and familiarly.

The comtesse and he talked of their horseback rides. She was laughing

at his manner of mounting a horse and called him "Le Chevalier

Trébuche," and he smiled also, having nicknamed her "The Amazon

Queen." A gun fired beneath the windows caused Jeanne to give a little

scream. It was the comte, who had killed a teal.

His wife called to him. A sound of oars was heard, a boat grinding

against the stones, and he appeared, enormous, booted, followed by two

drenched dogs of a ruddy color like himself, who lay down on the mat

outside the door.

He seemed more at his ease in his own home, and was delighted to see

his visitors. He put some wood on the fire, sent for madeira and

biscuits and then exclaimed suddenly: "Why, you will take dinner with

us, of course."

Jeanne, whose child was never out of her thoughts, declined. He

insisted, and as she could not be persuaded, Julien made a gesture of

annoyance. She feared to arouse his ugly, quarrelsome temper, and

although she was very unhappy at the thought that she should not see

Paul until the next day, she consented to stay.

The afternoon was delightful. They first visited the springs which

bubbled up at the foot of a mossy rock and then took a row on the

pond. At one end of the boat Julien and the comtesse, wrapped in

shawls, were smiling happily like those who have nothing left to wish

for.

A huge fire was blazing in the spacious reception room, which imparted

a sense of warmth and contentment. The comte seized his wife in his

arms and lifted her from the floor as though she had been a child and

gave her a hearty kiss on each cheek, like a man satisfied with the

world.

Jeanne, smiling, looked at this good giant whom one would have thought

was an ogre at the very sight of his mustaches, and she thought: "How

one may be deceived each day about everybody." Then, almost

involuntarily, she glanced at Julien standing in the doorway, looking

horribly pale and with his eyes fixed on the comte. She approached him

and said in a low tone: "Are you ill? What is the matter with you?" He

answered her angrily: "Nothing. Let me alone! I was cold."

When they went into the dining-room the count asked if he might let

his dogs come in, and they settled themselves one on either side of

their master.

After dinner, as Jeanne and Julien were preparing to leave, M. de

Fourville kept them a little longer to look at some fishing by

torchlight. When they finally set out, wrapped up in their cloaks and

some rugs they had borrowed, Jeanne said almost involuntarily: "What a

fine man that giant is!" Julien, who was driving, replied: "Yes, but

he does not always restrain himself before company."

A week later they called on the Couteliers, who were supposed to be

the chief noble family in the province. Their property of Remenil

adjoined the large town of Cany. The new château built in the reign of

Louis XIV. was hidden in a magnificent park enclosed by walls. The

ruins of the old château could be seen on an eminence. They were

ushered into a stately reception room by men servants in livery. In

the middle of the room a sort of column held an immense bowl of Sèvres

ware and on the pedestal of the column an autograph letter from the

king, under glass, requested the Marquis Leopold-Hervé-Joseph-Germer

de Varneville de Rollebosc de Coutelier to receive this present from

his sovereign.

Jeanne and Julien were looking at this royal gift when the marquis and

marquise entered the room.

They were very ceremonious people whose minds, sentiments and words

seemed always to be on stilts. They spoke without waiting for an

answer, smiling complacently, appearing always to be fulfilling the

duty imposed on them by their position, of showing civilities to the

inferior nobility of the region.

Jeanne and Julien, somewhat taken aback, endeavored to be agreeable,

but although they felt too embarrassed to remain any longer, they did

not know exactly how to take their leave. The marquise herself put an

end to the visit naturally and simply by bringing the conversation to

a close like a queen giving a dismissal.

On the way home Julien said: "If you like, we will make this our first

and last call; the Fourvilles are good enough for me." Jeanne was of

the same opinion. December passed slowly and the shut-in life began

again as in the previous year. But Jeanne did not find it wearisome,

as she was always taken up with Paul, whom Julien looked at askance,

uneasy and annoyed. Often when the mother held the child in her arms,

kissing it frantically as women do their children, she would hold it

up to its father, saying: "Give him a kiss; one would suppose you did

not love him." He would hardly touch with his lips the child's smooth

forehead, walking all round it, as though he did not wish to touch the

restless little fists. Then he would walk away abruptly as though from

something distasteful.

The mayor, the doctor and the curé came to dinner occasionally, and

sometimes it was the Fourvilles, with whom they were becoming more and

more intimate. The comte appeared to worship Paul. He held him on his

knees during the whole visit and sometimes during the whole afternoon,

playing with him and amusing him and then kissing him tenderly as

mothers do. He always lamented that he had no children of his own.

Comtesse Gilberte again mentioned the rides they all four were going

to take together. Jeanne, a little weary of the monotonous days and

nights, was quite happy in anticipation of these plans, and for a week

amused herself making a riding habit.

They always set out two and two, the comtesse and Julien ahead, the

count and Jeanne a hundred feet behind them, talking quietly, like

good friends, for such they had become through the sympathy of their

straightforward minds and simple hearts. The others often spoke in a

low tone, sometimes bursting into laughter and looking quickly at each

other, as though their eyes were expressing what they dared not utter.

And they would suddenly set off at a gallop, impelled by a desire to

flee, to get away, far away.

Then Gilberte would seem to be growing irritable. Her sharp voice,

borne on the breeze, occasionally reached the ears of the loitering

couple. The comte would smile and say to Jeanne: "She does not always

get out of bed the right side, that wife of mine."

One evening as they were coming home the comtesse was teasing her

mount, spurring it and then checking it abruptly. They heard Julien

say several time: "Take care, take care; you will be thrown." "So much

the worse," she replied; "it is none of your business," in a hard

clear tone that resounded across the fields as though the words hung

in the air.

The animal reared, plunged and champed the bit. The comte, uneasy,

shouted: "Be careful, Gilberte!" Then, as if in defiance, with one of

those impulses of a woman whom nothing can stop, she struck her horse

brutally between the ears. The animal reared in anger, pawed the air

with his front feet and, landing again on his feet, gave a bound and

darted across the plain at full speed.

First it crossed the meadow, then plunging into a ploughed field

kicked up the damp rich earth behind it, going so fast that one could

hardly distinguish its rider. Julien remained transfixed with

astonishment, calling out in despair: "Madame, madame!" but the comte

was rather annoyed, and, bending forward on his heavy mount, he urged

it forward and started out at such a pace, spurring it on with his

voice, his gestures and the spur, that the huge horseman seemed to be

carrying the heavy beast between his legs and to be lifting it up as

if to fly. They went at incredible speed, straight ahead, and Jeanne

saw the outline of the wife and of the husband fleeing getting smaller

and disappearing in the distance, as if they were two birds pursuing

each other to the verge of the horizon.

Julien, approaching Jeanne slowly, murmured angrily: "I think she is

crazy to-day." And they set out together to follow their friends, who

were now hidden by the rising ground.

At the end of about a quarter of an hour they saw them returning and

presently joined them. The comte, perspiring, his face red, but

smiling, happy and triumphant, was holding his wife's trembling horse

in his iron grasp. Gilberte was pale, her face sad and drawn, and she

was leaning one hand on her husband's shoulder as if she were going to

faint. Jeanne understood now that the comte loved her madly.

After this the comtesse for some months seemed happier than she had

ever been. She came to the "Poplars" more frequently, laughed

continually and kissed Jeanne impulsively. One might have said that

some mysterious charm had come into her life. Her husband was also

quite happy and never took his eyes off her. He said to Jeanne one

evening: "We are very happy just now. Gilberte has never been so nice

as this. She never is out of humor, never gets angry. I feel that she

loves me; until now I was not sure of it."

Julien also seemed changed, no longer impatient, as though the

friendship between the two families had brought peace and happiness to

both. The spring was singularly early and mild. Everything seemed to

be coming to life beneath the quickening rays of the sun. Jeanne was

vaguely troubled at this awakening of nature. Memories came to her of

the early days of her love. Not that her love for Julien was renewed;

that was over, over forever. But all her being, caressed by the

breeze, filled with the fragrance of spring, was disturbed as though

in response to some invisible and tender appeal. She loved to be

alone, to give herself up in the sunlight to all kinds of vague and

calm enjoyment which did not necessitate thinking.

One morning as she was in a reverie a vision came to her, a swift

vision of the sunlit nook amid the dark foliage in the little wood

near Étretat. It was there that she had for the first time trembled,

when beside the young man who loved her then. It was there that he had

uttered for the first time the timid desire of his heart. It was there

that she thought that she had all at once reached the radiant future

of her hopes. She wished to see this wood again, to make a sort of

sentimental and superstitious pilgrimage, as though a return to this

spot might somehow change the current of her life. Julien had been

gone since daybreak, she knew not whither. She had the little white

horse, which she sometimes rode, saddled, and she set out. It was one

of those days when nothing seemed stirring, not a blade of grass, not

a leaf. All seemed wrapped in a golden mist beneath the blazing sun.

Jeanne walked her horse, soothed and happy.

She descended into the valley which leads to the sea, between the

great arches in the cliff that are called the "Gates" of Étretat, and

slowly reached the wood. The sunlight was streaming through the still

scanty foliage. She wandered about the little paths, looking for the

spot.

All at once, as she was going along one of the lower paths, she

perceived at the farther end of it two horses tied to a tree and

recognized them at once; they belonged to Gilberte and Julien. The

loneliness of the place was beginning to be irksome to her, and she

was pleased at this chance meeting, and whipped up her horse.

When she reached the two patient animals, who were probably accustomed

to these long halts, she called. There was no reply. A woman's glove

and two riding whips lay on the beaten-down grass. So they had no

doubt sat down there awhile and then walked away leaving their horses

tied.

She waited a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, surprised, not

understanding what could be keeping them. She had dismounted. She sat

there, leaning against a tree trunk. Suddenly a thought came to her as

she glanced again at the glove, the whips and the two horses left tied

there, and she sprang to her saddle with an irresistible desire to

make her escape.

She started off at a gallop for the "Poplars." She was turning things

over in her mind, trying to reason, to put two and two together, to

compare facts. How was it that she had not suspected this sooner? How

was it that she had not noticed anything? How was it she had not

guessed the reason of Julien's frequent absences, the renewal of his

former attention to his appearance and the improvement in his temper?

She now recalled Gilberte's nervous abruptness, her exaggerated

affection and the kind of beaming happiness in which she seemed to

exist latterly and that so pleased the comte.

She reined in her horse, as she wanted to think, and the quick pace

disturbed her ideas.

As soon as the first emotion was over she became almost calm, without

jealousy or hatred, but filled with contempt. She hardly gave Julien a

thought; nothing he might do could astonish her. But the double

treachery of the comtesse, her friend, disgusted her. Everyone, then,

was treacherous, untruthful and false. And tears came to her eyes. One

sometimes mourns lost illusions as deeply as one does the death of a

friend.

She resolved, however, to act as though she knew nothing, to close the

doors of her heart to all ordinary affection and to love no one but

Paul and her parents and to endure other people with an undisturbed

countenance.

As soon as she got home she ran to her son, carried him up to her room

and kissed him passionately for an hour.

Julien came home to dinner, smiling and attentive, and appeared

interested as he asked: "Are not father and little mother coming this

year?"

She was so grateful to him for this little attention that she almost

forgave him for the discovery she had made in the wood, and she was

filled all of a sudden with an intense desire to see without delay the

two beings in the world whom she loved next to Paul, and passed the

whole evening writing to them to hasten their journey.

They promised to be there on the 20th of May and it was now the 7th.

She awaited their arrival with a growing impatience, as though she

felt, in addition to her filial affection, the need of opening her

heart to honest hearts, to talk with frankness to pure-minded people,

devoid of all infamy, all of whose life, actions and thoughts had been

upright at all times.

What she now felt was a sort of moral isolation, amid all this

immorality, and, although she had learned suddenly to disseminate,

although she received the comtesse with outstretched hand and smiling

lips, she felt this consciousness of hollowness, this contempt for

humanity increasing and enveloping her, and the petty gossip of the

district gave her a still greater disgust, a still lower opinion of

her fellow creatures.

The immorality of the peasants shocked her, and this warm spring

seemed to stir the sap in human beings as well as in plants. Jeanne

did not belong to the race of peasants who are dominated by their

lower instincts. Julien one day awakened her aversion anew by telling

her a coarse story that had been told to him and that he considered

very amusing.

When the travelling carriage stopped at the door and the happy face of

the baron appeared at the window Jeanne was stirred with so deep an

emotion, such a tumultuous feeling of affection as she had never

before experienced. But when she saw her mother she was shocked and

almost fainted. The baroness, in six months, had aged ten years. Her

heavy cheeks had grown flabby and purple, as though the blood were

congested; her eyes were dim and she could no longer move about unless

supported under each arm. Her breathing was difficult and wheezing and

affected those near her with a painful sensation.

When Jeanne had taken them to their room, she retired to her own in

order to have a good cry, as she was so upset. Then she went to look

for her father, and throwing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, her

eyes still full of tears: "Oh, how mother is changed! What is the

matter with her? Tell me, what is the matter?" He was much surprised

and replied: "Do you think so? What an idea! Why, no. I have never

been away from her. I assure you that I do not think she looks ill.

She always looks like that."

That evening Julien said to his wife: "Your mother is in a pretty bad

way. I think she will not last long." And as Jeanne burst out sobbing,

he became annoyed. "Come, I did not say there was no hope for her. You

always exaggerate everything. She is changed, that's all. She is no

longer young."

The baroness was not able to walk any distance and only went out for

half an hour each day to take one turn in her avenue and then she

would sit on the bench. And when she felt unequal to walking to the

end of her avenue, she would say: "Let us stop; my hypertrophy is

breaking my legs today." She hardly ever laughed now as she did the

previous year at anything that amused her, but only smiled. As she

could see to read excellently, she passed hours reading "Corinne" or

Lamartine's "Meditations." Then she would ask for her drawer of

"souvenirs," and emptying her cherished letters on her lap, she would

place the drawer on a chair beside her and put back, one by one, her

"relics," after she had slowly gone over them. And when she was alone,

quite alone, she would kiss some of them, as one kisses in secret a

lock of hair of a loved one passed away.

Sometimes Jeanne, coming in abruptly, would find her weeping and would

exclaim: "What is the matter, little mother?" And the baroness,

sighing deeply, would reply: "It is my 'relics' that make me cry. They

stir remembrances that were so delightful and that are now past

forever, and one is reminded of persons whom one had forgotten and

recalls once more. You seem to see them, to hear them and it affects

you strangely. You will feel this later."

When the baron happened to come in at such times he would say gently:

"Jeanne, dearie, take my advice and burn your letters, all of

them--your mother's, mine, everyone's. There is nothing more dreadful,

when one is growing old, than to look back to one's youth." But Jeanne

also kept her letters, was preparing a chest of "relics" in obedience to

a sort of hereditary instinct of dreamy sentimentality, although she

differed from her mother in every other way.

The baron was obliged to leave them some days later, as he had some

business that called him away.

One afternoon Jeanne took Paul in her arms and went out for a walk.

She was sitting on a bank, gazing at the infant, whom she seemed to be

looking at for the first time. She could hardly imagine him grown up,

walking with a steady step, with a beard on his face and talking in a

big voice. She heard someone calling and raised her head. Marius came

running toward her.

"Madame, Madame la Baronne is very bad!"

A cold chill seemed to run down her back as she started up and walked

hurriedly toward the house.

As she approached she saw a number of persons grouped around the plane

tree. She darted forward and saw her mother lying on the ground with

two pillows under her head. Her face was black, her eyes closed and

her breathing, which had been difficult for twenty years, now quite

hushed. The nurse took the child out of Jeanne's arms and carried it

off.

Jeanne, with drawn, anxious face, asked: "What happened? How did she

come to fall? Go for the doctor, somebody." Turning round, she saw the

old curé, who had heard of it in some way. He offered his services and

began rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. But vinegar, eau de

cologne and rubbing the invalid proved ineffectual.

"She should be undressed and put to bed," said the priest.

Joseph Couillard, the farmer, was there and old Simon and Ludivine.

With the assistance of Abbé Picot, they tried to lift the baroness,

but after an attempt were obliged to bring a large easy chair from the

drawing-room and place her in it. In this way they managed to get her

into the house and then upstairs, where they laid her on her bed.

Joseph Couillard set out in hot haste for the doctor. As the priest

was going to get the holy oil, the nurse, who had "scented a death,"

as the servants say, and was on the spot, whispered to him: "Do not

put yourself out, monsieur; she is dead. I know all about these

things."

Jeanne, beside herself, entreated them to do something. The priest

thought it best to pronounce the absolution.

They watched for two hours beside this lifeless, discolored body.

Jeanne, on her knees, was sobbing in an agony of grief.

When the door opened and the doctor appeared, Jeanne darted toward

him, stammering out what she knew of the accident, but seeing the

nurse exchange a meaning glance with the doctor, she stopped to ask

him: "Is it serious? Do you think it is serious?"

He said presently: "I am afraid--I am afraid--it is all over. Be

brave, be brave."

Jeanne, extending her arms, threw herself on her mother's body. Julien

just then came in. He stood there amazed, visibly annoyed, without any

exclamation of sorrow, any appearance of grief, taken so unawares that

he had not time to prepare a suitable expression of countenance. He

muttered: "I was expecting it, I felt that the end was near." Then he

took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down, crossed

himself, and then rising to his feet, attempted to raise his wife. But

she was clasping the dead body and kissing it, and it became necessary

to carry her away. She appeared to be out of her mind.

At the end of an hour she was allowed to come back. There was no

longer any hope. The room was arranged as a death chamber. Julien and

the priest were talking in a low tone near the window. It was growing

dark. The priest came over to Jeanne and took her hands, trying to

console her. He spoke of the defunct, praised her in pious phrases and

offered to pass the night in prayer beside the body.

But Jeanne refused, amid convulsive sobs. She wished to be alone,

quite alone on this last night of farewell. Julien came forward: "But

you must not do it; we will stay together." She shook her head, unable

to speak. At last she said: "It is my mother, my mother. I wish to

watch beside her alone." The doctor murmured: "Let her do as she

pleases; the nurse can stay in the adjoining room."

The priest and Julien consented, more interested in their own rest.

Then Abbé Picot knelt down in his turn, and as he rose and left the

room, he said: "She was a saint" in the same tone as he said "Dominus

vobiscum."

The vicomte in his ordinary tone then asked: "Are you not going to eat

something?" Jeanne did not reply, not knowing he was speaking to her,

and he repeated: "You had better eat something to keep up your

stomach." She replied in a bewildered manner: "Send at once for papa."

And he went out of the room to send someone on horseback to Rouen.

She remained plunged in a sort of motionless grief, seeing nothing,

feeling nothing, understanding nothing. She only wanted to be alone.

Julien came back. He had dined and he asked her again: "Won't you take

something?" She shook her head. He sat down with an air of resignation

rather than sadness, without speaking, and they both sat there silent,

till at length Julien arose, and approaching Jeanne, said: "Would you

like to stay alone now?" She took his hand impulsively and replied:

"Oh, yes! leave me!"

He kissed her forehead, murmuring: "I will come in and see you from

time to time." He went out with Widow Dentu, who rolled her easy chair

into the next room.

Jeanne shut the door and opened the windows wide. She felt the soft

breath from the mown hay that lay in the moonlight on the lawn. It

seemed to harrow her feelings like an ironical remark.

She went back to the bed, took one of the cold, inert hands and looked

at her mother earnestly. She seemed to be sleeping more peacefully

than she had ever done, and the pale flame of the tapers which

flickered at every breath made her face appear to be alive, as if she

had stirred. Jeanne remembered all the little incidents of her

childhood, the visits of little mother to the "parloir" of the

convent, the manner in which she handed her a little paper bag of

cakes, a multitude of little details, little acts, little caresses,

words, intonations, familiar gestures, the creases at the corner of

her eyes when she laughed, the big sigh she gave when she sat down.

And she stood there looking at her, repeating half mechanically: "She

is dead," and all the horror of the word became real to her. It was

mamma lying there--little mother--Mamma Adelaide who was dead. She

would never move about again, nor speak, nor laugh, nor sit at dinner

opposite little father. She would never again say: "Good-morning,

Jeannette." She was dead!

And she fell on her knees in a paroxysm of despair, her hands

clutching the sheet, her face buried in the covers as she cried in a

heartrending tone: "Oh, mamma, my poor mamma!" Then feeling that she

was losing her reason as she had done on the night when she fled

across the snow, she rose and ran to the window to drink in the fresh

air. The soothing calmness of the night entered her soul and she began

to weep quietly.

Presently she turned back into the room and sat down again beside

her mother. Other remembrances came to her: those of her own

life--Rosalie, Gilberte, the bitter disillusions of her heart.

Everything, then, was only misery, grief, unhappiness and death.

Everyone tried to deceive, everyone lied, everyone made you suffer and

weep. Where could one find a little rest and happiness? In another

existence no doubt, when the soul is freed from the trials of earth.

And she began to ponder on this insoluble mystery.

A tender and curious thought came to her mind. It was to read over in

this last watch, as though they were a litany, the old letters that

her mother loved. It seemed to her that she was about to perform a

delicate and sacred duty which would give pleasure to little mother in

the other world.

She rose, opened the writing desk and took from the lower drawer ten

little packages of yellow letters, tied and arranged in order, side by

side. She placed them all on the bed over her mother's heart from a

sort of sentiment and began to read them. They were old letters that

savored of a former century. The first began, "My dear little

granddaughter," then again "My dear little girl," "My darling," "My

dearest daughter," then "My dear child," "My dear Adelaide," "My dear

daughter," according to the periods--childhood, youth or young

womanhood. They were all full of little insignificant details and

tender words, about a thousand little matters, those simple but

important events of home life, so petty to outsiders: "Father has the

grip; poor Hortense burnt her finger; the cat, 'Croquerat,' is dead;

they have cut down the pine tree to the right of the gate; mother lost

her prayerbook on the way home from church, she thinks it was stolen."

All these details affected her. They seemed like revelations, as

though she had suddenly entered the past secret heart life of little

mother. She looked at her lying there and suddenly began to read

aloud, to read to the dead, as though to distract, to console her.

And the dead woman appeared to be pleased.

Jeanne tossed the letters as she read them to the foot of the bed. She

untied another package. It was a new handwriting. She read: "I cannot

do without your caresses. I love you so that I am almost crazy."

That was all; no signature.

She put back the letter without understanding its meaning. The address

was certainly "Madame la Baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds."

Then she opened another: "Come this evening as soon as he goes out; we

shall have an hour together. I worship you." In another: "I passed the

night longing in vain for you, longing to look into your eyes, to

press my lips to yours, and I am insane enough to throw myself from

the window at the thought that you are another's...."

Jeanne was perfectly bewildered. What did that mean? To whom, for

whom, from whom were these words of love?

She went on reading, coming across fresh impassioned declarations,

appointments with warnings as to prudence, and always at the end the

six words: "Be sure to burn this letter!"

At last she opened an ordinary note, accepting an invitation to

dinner, but in the same handwriting and signed: "Paul d'Ennemare,"

whom the baron called, whenever he spoke of him, "My poor old Paul,"

and whose wife had been the baroness' dearest friend.

Then a suspicion, which immediately became a certainty, flashed across

Jeanne's mind: He had been her mother's lover.

And, almost beside herself, she suddenly threw aside these infamous

letters as she would have thrown off some venomous reptile and ran to

the window and began to cry piteously. Then, collapsing, she sank down

beside the wall, and hiding her face in the curtain so that no one

should hear her, she sobbed bitterly as if in hopeless despair.

She would have remained thus probably all night, if she had not heard

a noise in the adjoining room that made her start to her feet. It

might be her father. And all the letters were lying on the floor! He

would have to open only one of them to know all! Her father!

She darted into the other room and seizing the letters in handfuls,

she threw them all into the fireplace, those of her grandparents as

well as those of the lover; some that she had not looked at and some

that had remained tied up in the drawers of the desk. She then took

one of the tapers that burned beside the bed and set fire to this pile

of letters. When they were reduced to ashes she went back to the open

window, as though she no longer dared to sit beside the dead, and

began to cry again with her face in her hands: "Oh, my poor mamma! oh,

my poor mamma!"

The stars were paling. It was the cool hour that precedes the dawn.

The moon was sinking on the horizon and turning the sea to mother of

pearl. The recollection of the night she passed at the window when she

first came to the "Poplars" came to Jeanne's mind. How far away it

seemed, how everything was changed, how different the future now

seemed!

The sky was becoming pink, a joyous, love-inspiring, enchanting pink.

She looked at it in surprise, as at some phenomenon, this radiant

break of day, and asked herself if it were possible that, on a planet

where such dawns were found, there should be neither joy nor

happiness.

A noise at the door made her start. It was Julien. "Well," he said,

"are you not very tired?"

She murmured, "No," happy at being no longer alone. "Go and rest now,"

he said. She kissed her mother a long, sad kiss; then she went to her

room.

The next day passed in the usual attentions to the dead. The baron

arrived toward evening. He wept for some time.

The funeral took place the following day. After pressing a last kiss

on her mother's icy forehead and seeing the coffin nailed down, Jeanne

left the room. The invited guests would soon arrive.

Gilberte was the first to come, and she threw herself sobbing on her

friend's shoulder. Women in black presently entered the room one after

another, people whom Jeanne did not know. The Marquise de Coutelier

and the Vicomtesse de Briseville embraced her. She suddenly saw Aunt

Lison gliding in behind her. She turned round and kissed her tenderly.

Julien came in, dressed all in black, elegant, very important, pleased

at seeing so many people. He asked his wife some question in a low

tone and added confidentially: "All the nobility are here; it will be

a fine affair." And he walked away, gravely bowing to the ladies. Aunt

Lison and Comtesse Gilberte alone remained with Jeanne during the

service for the dead. The comtesse kissed her repeatedly, exclaiming:

"My poor dear, my poor dear!"

When Comte de Fourville came to fetch his wife he was also crying as

though it were for his own mother.

CHAPTER X

RETRIBUTION

The following days were very sad and dreary, as they always are when

there has been a death in the house. And, in addition, Jeanne was

crushed at the thought of what she had discovered; her last shred of

confidence had been destroyed with the destruction of her faith.

Little father, after a short stay, went away to try and distract his

thoughts from his grief, and the large house, whose former masters

were leaving it from time to time, resumed its usual calm and

monotonous course.

Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne was almost beside herself, not sleeping

for ten days, and scarcely tasting food. He recovered, but she was

haunted by the idea that he might die. Then what should she do? What

would become of her? And there gradually stole into her heart the hope

that she might have another child. She dreamed of it, became obsessed

with the idea. She longed to realize her old dream of seeing two

little children around her; a boy and a girl.

But since the affair of Rosalie she and Julien had lived apart. A

reconciliation seemed impossible in their present situation. Julien

loved some one else, she knew it; and the very thought of suffering

his approach filled her with repugnance. She had no one left whom she

could consult. She resolved to go and see Abbé Picot and tell him,

under the seal of confession, all that weighed upon her mind in this

matter.

He was reading from his breviary in his little garden planted with

fruit trees when she arrived.

After a few minutes' conversation on indifferent matters, she

faltered, her color rising: "I want to confess, Monsieur l'Abbé."

He looked at her in astonishment, as he pushed his spectacles back on

his forehead; then he began to laugh. "You surely have no great sins

on your conscience." This embarrassed her greatly, and she replied:

"No, but I want to ask your advice on a subject that is so--so--so

painful that I dare not mention it casually."

He at once laid aside his jovial manner and assumed his priestly

attitude. "Well, my child, I will listen to you in the confessional;

come along."

But she held back, undecided, restrained by a kind of scruple at

speaking of these matters, of which she was half ashamed, in the

seclusion of an empty church.

"Or else, no--Monsieur le Curé--I might--I might--if you wish, tell

you now what brings me here. Let us go and sit over there, in your

little arbor."

They walked toward it, and Jeanne tried to think how she could begin.

They sat down in the arbor, and then, as if she were confessing

herself, she said: "Father----" then hesitated, and repeated:

"Father----" and was silent from emotion.

He waited, his hands crossed over his paunch. Seeing her

embarrassment, he sought to encourage her: "Why, my daughter, one

would suppose you were afraid; come, take courage."

She plucked up courage, like a coward who plunges headlong into

danger. "Father, I should like to have another child." He did not

reply, as he did not understand her. Then she explained, timid and

unable to express herself clearly:

"I am all alone in life now; my father and my husband do not get along

together; my mother is dead; and--and----" she added with a shudder,

"the other day I nearly lost my son! What would have become of me

then?"

She was silent. The priest, bewildered, was gazing at her. "Come, get

to the point of your subject."

"I want to have another child," she said. Then he smiled, accustomed

to the coarse jokes of the peasants, who were not embarrassed in his

presence, and he replied, with a sly motion of his head:

"Well, it seems to me that it depends only on yourself."

She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said, hesitating with

confusion: "But--but--you understand that since--since--what you know

about--about that maid--my husband and I have lived--have lived quite

apart."

Accustomed to the promiscuity and undignified relations of the

peasants, he was astonished at the revelation. All at once he thought

he guessed at the young woman's real desire, and looking at her out of

the corner of his eye, with a heart full of benevolence and of

sympathy for her distress, he said: "Oh, I understand perfectly. I

know that your widowhood must be irksome to you. You are young and in

good health. It is natural, quite natural."

He smiled, bearing out his easy-going character of a country priest,

and tapping Jeanne lightly on the hand, he said: "That is permissible,

very permissible indeed, according to the commandments. You are

married, are you not? Well, then, what is the harm?"

She, in her turn, had not understood his hidden meaning; but as soon

as she saw through it, she blushed scarlet, shocked, and with tears in

her eyes exclaimed: "Oh, Monsieur le Curé, what are you saying? What

are you thinking of? I swear to you--I swear to you----" And sobs

choked her words.

He was surprised and sought to console her: "Come, I did not mean to

hurt your feelings. I was only joking a little; there is no harm in

that when one is decent. But you may rely on me, you may rely on me. I

will see M. Julien."

She did not know what to say. She now wished to decline this

intervention, which she thought clumsy and dangerous, but she did not

dare to do so, and she went away hurriedly, faltering: "I am grateful

to you, Monsieur le Curé."

A week passed. One day at dinner Julien looked at her with a peculiar

expression, a certain smiling curve of the lips that she had noticed

when he was teasing her. He was even almost ironically gallant toward

her, and as they were walking after dinner in little mother's avenue,

he said in a low tone: "We seem to have made up again."

She did not reply, but continued to look on the ground at a sort of

track that was almost effaced now that the grass was sprouting anew.

They were the footprints of the baroness, which were vanishing as does

a memory. And Jeanne was plunged in sadness; she felt herself lost in

life, far away from everyone.

"As for me, I ask nothing better. I was afraid of displeasing you,"

continued Julien.

The sun was going down, the air was mild. A longing to weep came over

Jeanne, one of those needs of unbosoming oneself to a kindred spirit,

of unbending and telling one's griefs. A sob rose in her throat; she

opened her arms and fell on Julien's breast, and wept. He glanced down

in surprise at her head, for he could not see her face which was

hidden on his shoulder. He supposed that she still loved him, and

placed a condescending kiss on the back of her head.

They entered the house and he followed her to her room. And thus they

resumed their former relations, he, as a not unpleasant duty, and she,

merely tolerating him.

She soon noticed, however, that his manner had changed, and one day

with her lips to his, she murmured: "Why are you not the same as you

used to be?"

"Because I do not want any more children," he said jokingly.

She started. "Why not?"

He appeared greatly surprised. "Eh, what's that you say? Are you

crazy? No, indeed! One is enough, always crying and bothering

everyone. Another baby! No, thank you!"

At the end of a month she told the news to everyone, far and wide,

with the exception of Comtesse Gilberte, from reasons of modesty and

delicacy.

What the priest had foreseen finally came to pass. She became

enceinte. Then, filled with an unspeakable happiness, she locked her

door every night when she retired, vowing herself from henceforth to

eternal chastity, in gratitude to the vague divinity she adored.

She was now almost quite happy again. Her children would grow up and

love her; she would grow old quietly, happy and contented, without

troubling herself about her husband.

Toward the end of September, Abbé Picot called on a visit of ceremony

to introduce his successor, a young priest, very thin, very short,

with an emphatic way of talking, and with dark circles round his

sunken eyes.

The old abbé had been appointed Dean of Goderville.

Jeanne was really sorry to lose the old man, who had been associated

with all her recollections as a young woman. He had married her,

baptized Paul, and buried the baroness. She could not imagine Étouvent

without Abbé Picot and his paunch passing along by the farms, and she

loved him because he was cheerful and natural.

But he did not seem very cheerful at the thought of his promotion. "It

is a wrench, it is a wrench, madame la comtesse. I have been here for

eighteen years. Oh, the place does not bring in much, and is not

wealthy. The men have no more religion than they need, and the women,

look you, the women have no morals. But nevertheless, I loved it."

The new curé appeared impatient, and said abruptly: "When I am here

all that will have to be changed." He looked like an angry boy, thin

and frail in his somewhat worn, though clean cassock.

Abbé Picot looked at him sideways, as he did when he was in a joking

mood, and said: "You see, abbé, in order to prevent those happenings,

you will have to chain up your parishioners; and even that would not

be of much use." The little priest replied sharply: "We shall see."

And the older man smiled as he took a pinch of snuff, and said: "Age

will calm you down, abbé, and experience also. You will drive away

from the church the remaining faithful ones, and that is all the good

it will do. In this district they are religious, but pig-headed; be

careful. Faith, when I see a girl come to confess who looks rather

stout, I say to myself: 'She is bringing me a new parishioner,' and I

try to get her married. You cannot prevent them from making mistakes;

but you can go and look for the man, and prevent him from deserting

the mother. Get them married, abbé, get them married, and do not

trouble yourself about anything else."

"We think differently," said the young priest rudely; "it is useless

to insist." And Abbé Picot once more began to regret his village, the

sea which he saw from his parsonage, the little valleys where he

walked while repeating his breviary, glancing up at the boats as they

passed.

As the two priests took their leave, the old man kissed Jeanne, who

was on the verge of tears.

A week later Abbé Tolbiac called again. He spoke of reforms which he

intended to accomplish, as a prince might have done on taking

possession of a kingdom. Then he requested the vicomtesse not to miss

the service on Sunday, and to communicate a all the festivals. "You

and I," he said, "we are at the head of the district; we must rule it

and always set them an example to follow. We must be of one accord so

that we may be powerful and respected. The church and the château in

joining forces will make the peasants obey and fear us."

Jeanne's religion was all sentiment; she had all a woman's dream

faith, and if she attended at all to her religious duties, it was from

a habit acquired at the convent, the baron's advanced ideas having

long since overthrown her convictions. Abbé Picot contented himself

with what observances she gave him, and never blamed her. But his

successor, not seeing her at mass the preceding Sunday, had come to

call, uneasy and stern.

She did not wish to break with the parsonage, and promised, making up

her mind to be assiduous in attendance the first few weeks, out of

politeness.

Little by little, however, she got into the habit of going to church,

and came under the influence of this delicate, upright and dictatorial

abbé. A mystic, he appealed to her in his enthusiasm and zeal. He set

in vibration in her soul the chord of religious poetry that all women

possess. His unyielding austerity, his disgust for ordinary human

interests, his love of God, his youthful and untutored inexperience,

his harsh words, and his inflexible will, gave Jeanne an idea of the

stuff martyrs were made of; and she let herself be carried away, all

disillusioned as she was, by the fanaticism of this child, the

minister of God.

He led her to Christ, the consoler, showing her how the joy of

religion will calm all sorrow; and she knelt at the confessional,

humbling herself, feeling herself small and weak in presence of this

priest, who appeared to be about fifteen.

He was, however, very soon detested in all the countryside. Inflexibly

severe toward himself, he was implacably intolerant toward others, and

the one thing that especially roused his wrath and indignation was

love. The young men and girls looked at each other slyly across the

church, and the old peasants who liked to joke about such things

disapproved his severity. All the parish was in a ferment. Soon the

young men all stopped going to church.

The curé dined at the château every Thursday, and often came during

the week to chat with his penitent. She became enthusiastic like

himself, talked about spiritual matters, handling all the antique and

complicated arsenal of religious controversy.

They walked together along the baroness' avenue, talking of Christ and

the apostles, the Virgin Mary and the Fathers of the Church as though

they were personally acquainted with them.

Julien treated the new priest with great respect, saying constantly:

"That priest suits me, he does not back down." And he went to

confession and communion, setting a fine example. He now went to the

Fourvilles' nearly every day, gunning with the husband, who was never

happy without him, and riding with the comtesse, in spite of rain and

storm. The comte said: "They are crazy about riding, but it does my

wife good."

The baron returned to the château about the middle of November. He was

changed, aged, faded, filled with a deep sadness. And his love for his

daughter seemed to have gained in strength, as if these few months of

dreary solitude had aggravated his need of affection, confidence and

tenderness. Jeanne did not tell him about her new ideas, and her

friendship for the Abbé Tolbiac. The first time he saw the priest he

conceived a great aversion to him. And when Jeanne asked him that

evening how he liked him, he replied: "That man is an inquisitor! He

must be very dangerous."

When he learned from the peasants, whose friend he was, of the

harshness and violence of the young priest, of the kind of persecution

which he carried on against all human and natural instincts, he

developed a hatred toward him. He, himself, was one of the old race of

natural philosophers who bowed the knee to a sort of pantheistic

Divinity, and shrank from the catholic conception of a God with

bourgeois instincts, Jesuitical wrath, and tyrannical revenge. To him

reproduction was the great law of nature, and he began from farm to

farm an ardent campaign against this intolerant priest, the persecutor

of life.

Jeanne, very much worried, prayed to the Lord, entreated her father;

but he always replied: "We must fight such men as that, it is our duty

and our right. They are not human."

And he repeated, shaking his long white locks: "They are not human;

they understand nothing, nothing, nothing. They are moving in a morbid

dream; they are anti-physical." And he pronounced the word

"anti-physical" as though it were a malediction.

The priest knew who his enemy was, but as he wished to remain ruler of

the château and of Jeanne, he temporized, sure of final victory. He

was also haunted by a fixed idea. He had discovered by chance the

amours of Julien and Gilberte, and he desired to put a stop to them at

all costs.

He came to see Jeanne one day and, after a long conversation on

spiritual matters, he asked her to give her aid in helping him to

fight, to put an end to the evil in her own family, in order to save

two souls that were in danger.

She did not understand, and did not wish to know. He replied: "The

hour has not arrived. I shall see you some other time." And he left

abruptly.

The winter was coming to a close, a rotten winter, as they say in the

country, damp and mild. The abbé called again some days later and

hinted mysteriously at one of those shameless intrigues between

persons whose conduct should be irreproachable. It was the duty, he

said, of those who were aware of the facts to use every means to bring

it to an end. He took Jeanne's hand and adjured her to open her eyes

and understand and lend him her aid.

This time she understood, but she was silent, terrified at the thought

of all that might result in the house that was now peaceful, and she

pretended not to understand. Then he spoke out clearly.

She faltered: "What do you wish me to do, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"Anything, rather than permit this infamy. Anything, I say. Leave him.

Flee from this impure house!"

"But I have no money; and then I have no longer any courage; and,

besides, how can I go without any proof? I have not the right to do

so."

The priest arose trembling: "That is cowardice, madame; I am mistaken

in you. You are unworthy of God's mercy!"

She fell on her knees: "Oh, I pray you not to leave me, tell me what

to do!"

"Open M. de Fourville's eyes," he said abruptly. "It is his place to

break up this intrigue."

This idea filled her with terror. "Why, he would kill them, Monsieur

l'Abbé! And I should be guilty of denouncing them! Oh, never that,

never!"

He raised his hand as if to curse her in his fury: "Remain in your

shame and your crime; for you are more guilty than they are. You are

the complaisant wife! There is nothing more for me to do here." And he

went off so furious that he trembled all over.

She followed him, distracted and ready to do as he suggested. But he

strode along rapidly, shaking his large blue umbrella in his rage. He

perceived Julien standing outside the gate superintending the lopping

of the trees, so he turned to the left to go across the Couillard

farm, and he said: "Leave me alone, madame, I have nothing further to

say to you."

Jeanne was entreating him to give her a few days for reflection, and

then if he came back to the château she would tell him what she had

done, and they could take counsel together.

Right in his road, in the middle of the farmyard, a group of children,

those of the house and some neighbor's children, were standing around

the kennel of Mirza, the dog, looking curiously at something with

silent and concentrated attention. In the midst of them stood the

baron, his hands behind his back, also looking on with curiosity. One

would have taken him for a schoolmaster. When he saw the priest

approaching, he moved away so as not to have to meet him and speak to

him.

The priest did not call again; but the following Sunday from the

pulpit he hurled imprecations, curses and threats against the château,

anathematizing the baron, and making veiled allusions, but timidly, to

Julien's latest intrigue. The vicomte was furious, but the dread of a

shocking scandal kept him silent. At each service thereafter the

priest declared his indignation, predicting the approach of the hour

when God would smite all his enemies.

Julien wrote a firm, but respectful letter to the archbishop; the abbé

was threatened with suspension. He was silent thereafter.

Gilberte and Julien now frequently met him during their rides reading

his breviary, but they turned aside so as not to pass him by. Spring

had come and reawakened their love. As the foliage was still sparse

and the grass damp, they used to meet in a shepherd's movable hut that

had been deserted since autumn. But one day when they were leaving it,

they saw the Abbé Tolbiac, almost hidden in the sea rushes on the

slope.

"We must leave our horses in the ravine," said Julien, "as they can be

seen from a distance and would betray us." One evening as they were

coming home together to La Vrillette, where they were to dine with the

comte, they met the curé of Étouvent coming out of the château. He

stepped to the side of the road to let them pass, and bowed without

their eyes meeting. They were uneasy for a few moments, but soon

forgot it.

One afternoon, Jeanne was reading beside the fire while a storm of

wind was raging outside, when she suddenly perceived Comte Fourville

coming on foot at such a pace that she thought some misfortune had

happened.

She ran downstairs to meet him, and when she saw him she thought he

must be crazy. He wore a large quilted cap that he wore only at home,

his hunting jacket, and looked so pale that his red mustache, usually

the color of his skin, now seemed like a flame. His eyes were haggard,

rolling as though his mind were vacant.

He stammered: "My wife is here, is she not?" Jeanne, losing her

presence of mind, replied: "Why, no, I have not seen her to-day."

He sat down as if his legs had given way. He then took off his cap and

wiped his forehead with his handkerchief mechanically several times.

Then starting up suddenly, he approached Jeanne, his hands stretched

out, his mouth open, as if to speak, to confide some great sorrow to

her. Then he stopped, looked at her fixedly and said as though he were

wandering: "But it is your husband--you also----" And he fled, going

toward the sea.

Jeanne ran after him, calling him, imploring him to stop, her heart

beating with apprehension as she thought: "He knows all! What will he

do? Oh, if he only does not find them!"

But she could not come up to him, and he disregarded her appeals. He

went straight ahead without hesitation, straight to his goal. He

crossed the ditch, then, stalking through the sea rushes like a giant,

he reached the cliff.

Jeanne, standing on the mound covered with trees, followed him with

her eyes until he was out of sight. Then she went into the house,

distracted with grief.

He had turned to the right and started to run. Threatening waves

overspread the sea, big black clouds were scudding along madly,

passing on and followed by others, each of them coming down in a

furious downpour. The wind whistled, moaned, laid the grass and the

young crops low and carried away big white birds that looked like

specks of foam and bore them far into the land.

The hail which followed beat in the comte's face, filling his ears

with noise and his heart with tumult.

Down yonder before him was the deep gorge of the Val de Vaucotte.

There was nothing before him but a shepherd's hut beside a deserted

sheep pasture. Two horses were tied to the shafts of the hut on

wheels. What might not happen to one in such a tempest as this?

As soon as he saw them the comte crouched on the ground and crawled

along on his hands and knees as far as the lonely hut and hid himself

beneath the hut that he might not be seen through the cracks. The

horses on seeing him became restive. He slowly cut their reins with

the knife which he held open in his hand, and a sudden squall coming

up, the animals fled, frightened at the hail which rattled on the

sloping roof of the wooden hut and made it shake on its wheels.

The comte then kneeling upright, put his eye to the bottom of the door

and looked inside. He did not stir; he seemed to be waiting.

A little time elapsed and then he suddenly rose to his feet, covered

with mud from head to foot. He frantically pushed back the bolt which

closed the hut on the outside, and seizing the shafts, he began to

shake the hut as though he would break it to pieces. Then all at once

he got between the shafts, bending his huge frame, and with a

desperate effort dragged it along like an ox, panting as he went. He

dragged it, with whoever was in it, toward the steep incline.

Those inside screamed and banged with their fists on the door, not

understanding what was going on.

When he reached the top of the cliff he let go the fragile dwelling,

which began to roll down the incline, going ever faster and faster,

plunging, stumbling like an animal and striking the ground with its

shafts.

An old beggar hidden in a ditch saw it flying over his head and heard

frightful screams coming from the wooden box.

All at once a wheel was wrenched off and it fell on its side and began

to roll like a ball, as a house torn from its foundations might roll

from the summit of a mountain. Then, reaching the ledge of the last

ravine, it described a circle, and, falling to the bottom, burst open

as an egg might do. It was no sooner smashed on the stones than the

old beggar, who had seen it going past, went down toward it slowly

amid the rushes, and with the customary caution of a peasant, not

daring to go directly to the shattered hut, he went to the nearest

farm to tell of the accident.

They all ran to look at it and raised the wreck of the hut. They found

two bodies, bruised, crushed and bleeding. The man's forehead was

split open and his whole face crushed; the woman's jaw was hanging,

dislocated in one of the jolts, and their shattered limbs were soft as

pulp.

"What were they doing in that shanty?" said a woman.

The old beggar then said that they had apparently taken refuge in it

to get out of the storm and that a furious squall must have blown the

hut over the cliff. He said he had intended to take shelter there

himself, when he saw the horses tied to it, and understood that some

one else must be inside. "But for that," he added in a satisfied tone,

"I might have rolled down in it." Some one remarked: "Would not that

have been a good thing?"

The old man, in a furious rage, said: "Why would it have been a good

thing? Because I am poor and they are rich! Look at them now." And

trembling, ragged and dripping with rain, he pointed to the two dead

bodies with his hooked stick and exclaimed: "We are all alike when we

get to this."

The comte, as soon as he saw the hut rolling down the steep slope, ran

off at full speed through the blinding storm. He ran in this way for

several hours, taking short cuts, leaping across ditches, breaking

through the hedges, and thus got back home at dusk, not knowing how

himself.

The frightened servants were awaiting his return and told him that the

two horses had returned riderless some little time before, that of

Julien following the other one.

Then M. de Fourville reeled and in a choked voice said: "Something

must have happened to them in this dreadful weather. Let every one

help to look for them."

He started off himself, but he was no sooner out of sight than he

concealed himself in a clump of bushes, watching the road along which

she whom he even still loved with an almost savage passion was to

return dead, dying or maybe crippled and disfigured forever.

And soon a carriole passed by carrying a strange burden.

It stopped at the château and passed through the gate. It was that, it

was she. But a fearful anguish nailed him to the spot, a fear to know

the worst, a dread of the truth, and he did not stir, hiding as a

hare, starting at the least sound.

He waited thus an hour, two hours perhaps. The buggy did not come out.

He concluded that his wife was expiring, and the thought of seeing

her, of meeting her gaze filled him with so much horror that he

suddenly feared to be discovered in his hiding place and of being

compelled to return and be present at this agony, and he then fled

into the thick of the wood. Then all of a sudden it occurred to him

that she perhaps might be needing his care, that no one probably could

properly attend to her. Then he returned on his tracks, running

breathlessly.

On entering the château he met the gardener and called out to him,

"Well?" The man did not dare answer him. Then M. de Fourville almost

roared at him: "Is she dead?" and the servant stammered: "Yes, M. le

Comte."

He experienced a feeling of immense relief. His blood seemed to cool

and his nerves relax somewhat of their extreme tension, and he walked

firmly up the steps of his great hallway.

The other wagon had reached "The Poplars." Jeanne saw it from afar.

She descried the mattress; she guessed that a human form was lying

upon it, and understood all. Her emotion was so vivid that she swooned

and fell prostrate.

When she regained consciousness her father was holding her head and

bathing her temples with vinegar. He said hesitatingly: "Do you know?"

She murmured: "Yes, father." But when she attempted to rise she found

herself unable to do so, so intense was her agony.

That very night she gave birth to a stillborn infant, a girl.

Jeanne saw nothing of the funeral of Julien; she knew nothing of it.

She merely noticed at the end of a day or two that Aunt Lison was

back, and in her feverish dreams which haunted her she persistently

sought to recall when the old maiden lady had left "The Poplars," at

what period and under what circumstances. She could not make this out,

even in her lucid moments, but she was certain of having seen her

subsequent to the death of "little mother."

CHAPTER XI

THE DEVELOPMENT OF PAUL

Jeanne did not leave her room for three months and was so wan and pale

that no one thought she would recover. But she picked up by degrees.

Little father and Aunt Lison never left her; they had both taken up

their abode at "The Poplars." The shock of Julien's death had left her

with a nervous malady. The slightest sound made her faint and she had

long swoons from the most insignificant causes.

She had never asked the details of Julien's death. What did it matter

to her? Did she not know enough already? Every one thought it was an

accident, but she knew better, and she kept to herself this secret

which tortured her: the knowledge of his infidelity and the

remembrance of the abrupt and terrible visit of the comte on the day

of the catastrophe.

And now she was filled with tender, sweet and melancholy recollections

of the brief evidences of love shown her by her husband. She

constantly thrilled at unexpected memories of him, and she seemed to

see him as he was when they were betrothed and as she had known him in

the hours passed beneath the sunlight in Corsica. All his faults

diminished, all his harshness vanished, his very infidelities appeared

less glaring in the widening separation of the closed tomb. And

Jeanne, pervaded by a sort of posthumous gratitude for this man who

had held her in his arms, forgave all the suffering he had caused her,

to remember only moments of happiness they had passed together. Then,

as time went on and month followed month, covering all her grief and

reminiscences with forgetfulness, she devoted herself entirely to her

son.

He became the idol, the one thought of the three beings who surrounded

him, and he ruled as a despot. A kind of jealousy even arose among his

slaves. Jeanne watched with anxiety the great kisses he gave his

grandfather after a ride on his knee, and Aunt Lison, neglected by him

as she had been by every one else and treated often like a servant by

this little tyrant who could scarcely speak as yet, would go to her

room and weep as she compared the slight affection he showed her with

the kisses he gave his mother and the baron.

Two years passed quietly, and at the beginning of the third winter it

was decided that they should go to Rouen to live until spring, and the

whole family set out. But on their arrival in the old damp house, that

had been shut up for some time, Paul had such a severe attack of

bronchitis that his three relatives in despair declared that he could

not do without the air of "The Poplars." They took him back there and

he got well.

Then began a series of quiet, monotonous years. Always around the

little one, they went into raptures at everything he did. His mother

called him Poulet, and as he could not pronounce the word, he said

"Pol," which amused them immensely, and the nickname of "Poulet" stuck

to him.

The favorite occupation of his "three mothers," as the baron called

his relatives, was to see how much he had grown, and for this purpose

they made little notches in the casing of the drawing-room door,

showing his progress from month to month. This ladder was called

"Poulet's ladder," and was an important affair.

A new individual began to play a part in the affairs of the

household--the dog "Massacre," who became Paul's inseparable

companion.

Rare visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and the Couteliers.

The mayor and the doctor alone were regular visitors. Since the

episode of the mother dog and the suspicion Jeanne had entertained of

the priest on the occasion of the terrible death of the comtesse and

Julien, Jeanne had not entered the church, angry with a divinity that

could tolerate such ministers.

The church was deserted and the priest came to be looked on as a

sorcerer because he had, so they said, driven out an evil spirit from

a woman who was possessed, and although fearing him the peasants came

to respect him for this occult power as well as for the unimpeachable

austerity of his life.

When he met Jeanne he never spoke. This condition of affairs

distressed Aunt Lison, and when she was alone, quite alone with Paul,

she talked to him about God, telling him the wonderful stories of the

early history of the world. But when she told him that he must love

Him very much, the child would say: "Where is He, auntie?" "Up there,"

she would say, pointing to the sky; "up there, Poulet, but do not say

so." She was afraid of the baron.

One day, however, Poulet said to her: "God is everywhere, but He is

not in church." He had told his grandfather of his aunt's wonderful

revelations.

When Paul was twelve years old a great difficulty arose on the subject

of his first communion.

Lison came to Jeanne one morning and told her that the little fellow

should no longer be kept without religious instruction and from his

religious duties. His mother, troubled and undecided, hesitated,

saying that there was time enough. But a month later, as she was

returning a call at the Brisevilles', the comtesse asked her casually

if Paul was going to make his first communion that year. Jeanne,

unprepared for this, answered, "Yes," and this simple word decided

her, and without saying a word to her father, she asked Aunt Lison to

take the boy to the catechism class.

All went well for a month, but one day Paul came home with a

hoarseness and the following day he coughed. On inquiry his mother

learned that the priest had sent him to wait till the lesson was over

at the door of the church, where there was a draught, because he had

misbehaved. So she kept him at home and taught him herself. But the

Abbé Tobiac, despite Aunt Lison's entreaties, refused to admit him as

a communicant on the ground that he was not thoroughly taught.

The same thing occurred the following year, and the baron angrily

swore that the child did not need to believe all that tomfoolery, so

it was decided that he should be brought up as a Christian, but not as

an active Catholic, and when he came of age he could believe as he

pleased.

The Brisevilles ceased to call on her and Jeanne was surprised,

knowing the punctiliousness of these neighbors in returning calls, but

the Marquise de Coutelier haughtily told her the reason. Considering

herself, in virtue of her husband's rank and fortune, a sort of queen

of the Norman nobility, the marquise ruled as a queen, said what she

thought, was gracious or the reverse as occasion demanded,

admonishing, restoring to favor, congratulating whenever she saw fit.

So when Jeanne came to see her, this lady, after a few chilling

remarks, said drily: "Society is divided into two classes: those who

believe in God and those who do not believe in Him. The former, even

the humblest, are our friends, our equals; the latter are nothing to

us."

Jeanne, perceiving the insinuation, replied: "But may one not believe

in God without going to church?"

"No, madame," answered the marquise. "The faithful go to worship God

in His church, just as one goes to see people in their homes."

Jeanne, hurt, replied: "God is everywhere, madame. As for me, who

believes from the bottom of my heart in His goodness, I no longer feel

His presence when certain priests come between Him and me."

The marquise rose. "The priest is the standard bearer of the Church,

madame. Whoever does not follow the standard is opposed to Him and

opposed to us."

Jeanne had risen in her turn and said, trembling: "You believe,

madame, in a partisan God. I believe in the God of upright people."

She bowed and took her leave.

The peasants also blamed her among themselves for not having let

Poulet make his first communion. They themselves never attended

service or took the sacrament unless it might be at Easter, according

to the rule ordained by the Church; but for boys it was quite another

thing, and they would have all shrunk in horror at the audacity of

bringing up a child outside this recognized law, for religion is

religion.

She saw how they felt and was indignant at heart at all these

discriminations, all these compromises with conscience, this general

fear of everything, the real cowardice of all hearts and the mask of

respectability assumed in public.

The baron took charge of Paul's studies and made him study Latin, his

mother merely saying: "Above all things, do not get over tired."

As soon as the boy was at liberty he went down to work in the garden

with his mother and his aunt.

He now loved to dig in the ground, and all three planted young trees

in the spring, sowed seed and watched it growing with the deepest

interest, pruned branches and cut flowers for bouquets.

Poulet was almost fifteen, but was a mere child in intelligence,

ignorant, silly, suppressed between petticoat government and this kind

old man who belonged to another century.

One evening the baron spoke of college, and Jeanne at once began to

sob. Aunt Lison timidly remained in a dark corner.

"Why does he need to know so much?" asked his mother. "We will make a

gentleman farmer of him. He can cultivate his land, as many of the

nobility do. He will live and grow old happily in this house, where we

have lived before him and where we shall die. What more can one do?"

But the baron shook his head. "What would you say to him if he should

say to you when he is twenty-five: 'I amount to nothing, I know

nothing, all through your fault, the fault of your maternal

selfishness. I feel that I am incapable of working, of making

something of myself, and yet I was not intended for a secluded, simple

life, lonely enough to kill one, to which I have been condemned by

your shortsighted affection.'"

She was weeping and said entreatingly: "Tell me, Poulet, you will not

reproach me for having loved you too well?" And the big boy, in

surprise, promised that he never would. "Swear it," she said. "Yes,

mamma." "You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes, mamma."

Then the baron spoke up loud and decidedly: "Jeanne, you have no right

to make disposition of this life. What you are doing is cowardly and

almost criminal; you are sacrificing your child to your own private

happiness."

She hid her face in her hands, sobbing convulsively, and stammered out

amid her tears: "I have been so unhappy--so unhappy! Now, just as I am

living peacefully with him, they want to take him away from me. What

will become of me now--all by myself?" Her father rose and, sitting

down beside her, put his arms round her. "And how about me, Jeanne?"

She put her arms suddenly round his neck, gave him a hearty kiss and

with her voice full of tears, she said: "Yes, you are right perhaps,

little father. I was foolish, but I have suffered so much. I am quite

willing he should go to college."

And without knowing exactly what they were going to do with him,

Poulet in his turn began to weep.

Then the three mothers began to kiss him and pet him and encourage

him. When they retired to their rooms it was with a weight at their

hearts, and they all wept, even the baron, who had restrained himself

up to that.

It was decided that when the term began to put the young boy to school

at Havre, and during the summer he was petted more than ever; his

mother sighed often as she thought of the separation. She prepared his

wardrobe as if he were going to undertake a ten years' voyage. One

October morning, after a sleepless night, the two women and the baron

got into the carriage with him and set out on their journey.

They had previously selected his place in the dormitory and his desk

in the school room. Jeanne, aided by Aunt Lison, spent the whole day

in arranging his clothes in his little wardrobe. As it did not hold a

quarter of what they had brought, she went to look for the

superintendent to ask for another. The treasurer was called, but he

pointed out that all that amount of clothing would only be in the way

and would never be needed, and he refused, on behalf of the directors,

to let her have another chest of drawers. Jeanne, much annoyed,

decided to hire a room in a small neighboring hotel, begging the

proprietor to go himself and take Poulet whatever he required as soon

as the boy asked for it.

They then took a walk on the pier to look at the ships coming and

going. They went into a restaurant to dine, but they were none of them

able to eat, and looked at one another with moistened eyes as the

dishes were brought on and taken away almost untouched.

They now returned slowly toward the school. Boys of all ages were

arriving from all quarters, accompanied by their families or by

servants. Many of them were crying.

Jeanne held Poulet in a long embrace, while Aunt Lison remained in the

background, her face hidden in her handkerchief. The baron, however,

who was becoming affected, cut short the adieus by dragging his

daughter away. They got into the carriage and went back through the

darkness to "The Poplars," the silence being broken by an occasional

sob.

Jeanne wept all the following day and on the day after drove to Havre

in the phaeton. Poulet seemed to have become reconciled to the

separation. For the first time in his life he now had playmates, and

in his anxiety to join them he could scarcely sit still on his chair

when his mother called. She continued her visits to him every other

day and called to take him home on Sundays. Not knowing what to do

with herself while school was in session until recreation time, she

would remain sitting in the reception room, not having the strength or

the courage to go very far from the school. The superintendent sent to

ask her to come to his office and begged her not to come so

frequently. She paid no attention to his request. He therefore

informed her that if she continued to prevent her son from taking his

recreation at the usual hours, obliging him to work without a change

of occupation, they would be forced to send him back home again, and

the baron was also notified to the same effect. She was consequently

watched like a prisoner at "The Poplars."

She became restless and worried and would ramble about for whole days

in the country, accompanied only by Massacre, dreaming as she walked

along. Sometimes she would remain seated for a whole afternoon,

looking out at the sea from the top of the cliff; at other times she

would go down to Yport through the wood, going over the ground of her

former walks, the memory of which haunted her. How long ago--how long

ago it was--the time when she had gone over these same paths as a

young girl, carried away by her dreams.

Poulet was not very industrious at school; he was kept two years in

the fourth form. The third year's work was only tolerable and he had

to begin the second over again, so that he was in rhetoric when he was

twenty.

He was now a big, fair young man, with downy whiskers and a faint sign

of a mustache. He now came home to "The Poplars" every Sunday, riding

over in a couple of hours, his mother, Aunt Lison and the baron

starting out early to go and meet him.

Although he was a head taller than his mother, she always treated him

as though he were a child, and when he returned to school in the

evening she would charge him anxiously not to go too fast and to think

of his poor mother, who would break her heart if anything happened to

him.

One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul, saying that he

would not be home on the following day because some friends had

arranged an excursion and had invited him. She was tormented with

anxiety all day Sunday, as though she dreaded some misfortune, and on

Thursday, as she could endure it no longer, she set out for Havre.

He seemed to be changed, though she could not have told in what

manner. He appeared excited and his voice seemed deeper. And suddenly,

as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he said: "I

say, mother, as long as you have come to-day, I want to tell you that

I will not be at 'The Poplars' next Sunday, for we are going to have

another excursion."

She was amazed, smothering, as if he had announced his departure for

America. At last, recovering herself, she said: "Oh, Poulet, what is

the matter with you? Tell me what is going on."

He began to laugh, and kissing her, replied: "Why, nothing, nothing,

mamma. I am going to have a good time with my friends; I am just at

that age."

She had nothing to say, but when she was alone in the carriage all

manner of ideas came into her mind. She no longer recognized him, her

Poulet, her little Poulet of former days. She felt for the first time

that he was grown up, that he no longer belonged to her, that he was

going to live his life without troubling himself about the old people.

It seemed to her that one day had wrought this change in him. Was it

possible that this was her son, her poor little boy who had helped her

to replant the lettuce, this great big bearded youth who had a will of

his own!

For three months Paul came home only occasionally, and always seemed

impatient to get away again, trying to steal off an hour earlier each

evening. Jeanne was alarmed, but the baron consoled her, saying: "Let

him alone; the boy is twenty years old."

One morning, however, an old man, poorly dressed, inquired in

German-French for "Madame la Vicomtesse," and after many ceremonious

bows, he drew from his pocket a dilapidated pocketbook, saying: "Che un

betit bapier bour fous," and unfolding as he handed it to her a piece

of greasy paper. She read and reread it, looked at the Jew, read it

over again and asked: "What does it mean?"

He obsequiously explained: "I will tell you. Your son needed a little

money, and as I knew that you are a good mother, I lent him a trifle

to help him out."

Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not ask me?" The Jew explained

at length that it was a question of a debt that must be paid before

noon the following day; that Paul not being of age, no one would have

lent him anything, and that his "honor would have been compromised"

without this little service that he had rendered the young man.

Jeanne tried to call the baron, but had not the strength to rise, she

was so overcome by emotion. At length she said to the usurer: "Would

you have the kindness to ring the bell?"

He hesitated, fearing some trap, and then stammered out: "If I am

intruding, I will call again." She shook her head in the negative. He

then rang, and they waited in silence, sitting opposite each other.

When the baron came in he understood the situation at once. The note

was for fifteen hundred francs. He paid one thousand, saying close to

the man's face: "And on no account come back." The other thanked him

and went his way.

The baron and Jeanne set out at once for Havre. On reaching the

college they learned that Paul had not been there for a month. The

principal had received four letters signed by Jeanne saying that his

pupil was not well and then to tell how he was getting along. Each

letter was accompanied by a doctor's certificate. They were, of

course, all forged. They were all dumbfounded, and stood there looking

at each other.

The principal, very much worried, took them to the commissary of

police. Jeanne and her father stayed at a hotel that night. The

following day the young man was found in the apartment of a courtesan

of the town. His grandfather and mother took him back to "The Poplars"

and not a word was exchanged between them during the whole journey.

A week later they discovered that he had contracted fifteen thousand

francs' worth of debts within the last three months. His creditors had

not come forward at first, knowing that he would soon be of age.

They entered into no discussion about it, hoping to win him back by

gentleness. They gave him dainty food, petted him, spoiled him. It was

spring and they hired a boat for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne's

fears, so that he might amuse himself on the water.

They would not let him have a horse, for fear he should ride to Havre.

He was there with nothing to do and became irritable and occasionally

brutally so. The baron was worried at the discontinuance of his

studies. Jeanne, distracted at the idea of a separation, asked herself

what they could do with him.

One evening he did not come home. They learned that he had gone out in

a boat with two sailors. His mother, beside herself with anxiety, went

down to Yport without a hat in the dark. Some men were on the beach,

waiting for the boat to come in. There was a light on board an

incoming boat, but Paul was not on board. He had made them take him to

Havre.

The police sought him in vain; he could not be found. The woman with

whom he had been found the first time had also disappeared without

leaving any trace; her furniture was sold and her rent paid. In Paul's

room at "The Poplars" were found two letters from this person, who

seemed to be madly in love with him. She spoke of a voyage to England,

having, she said, obtained the necessary funds.

The three dwellers in the château lived silently and drearily, their

minds tortured by all kinds of suppositions. Jeanne's hair, which had

become gray, now turned perfectly white. She asked in her innocence

why fate had thus afflicted her.

She received a letter from the Abbé Tolbiac: "Madame, the hand of God

is weighing heavily on you. You refused Him your child; He took him

from you in His turn to cast him into the hands of a prostitute. Will

not you open your eyes at this lesson from Heaven? God's mercy is

infinite. Perhaps He may pardon you if you return and fall on your

knees before Him. I am His humble servant. I will open to you the door

of His dwelling when you come and knock at it."

She sat a long time with this letter on her lap. Perhaps it was true

what the priest said. And all her religious doubts began to torment

her conscience. And in her cowardly hesitation, which drives to church

the doubting, the sorrowful, she went furtively one evening at

twilight to the parsonage, and kneeling at the feet of the thin abbé,

begged for absolution.

He promised her a conditional pardon, as God could not pour down all

His favors on a roof that sheltered a man like the baron. "You will

soon feel the effects of the divine mercy," he declared.

Two days later she did, indeed, receive a letter from her son, and in

her discouragement and grief she looked upon this as the commencement

of the consolation promised her by the abbé. The letter ran:

"My Dear Mamma: Do not be uneasy. I am in London, in good health, in

very great need of money. We have not a sou left, and we do not have

anything to eat some days. The one who is with me, and whom I love

with all my heart, has spent all that she had so as not to leave

me--five thousand francs--and you see that I am bound in honor to

return her this sum in the first place. So I wish you would be kind

enough to advance me fifteen thousand francs of papa's fortune, for I

shall soon be of age. This will help me out of very serious

difficulties.

"Good-by, my dear mamma. I embrace you with all my heart, and also

grandfather and Aunt Lison. I hope to see you soon.

"Your son,

"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."

He had written to her! He had not forgotten her then. She did not care

anything about his asking for money! She would send him some as long

as he had none. What did money matter? He had written to her! And she

ran, weeping for joy, to show this letter to the baron. Aunt Lison was

called and read over word by word this paper that told of him. They

discussed each sentence.

Jeanne, jumping from the most complete despair to a kind of

intoxication of hope, took Paul's part. "He will come back, he will

come back as he has written."

The baron, more calm, said: "All the same he left us for that

creature, so he must love her better than us, as he did not hesitate

about it."

A sudden and frightful pang struck Jeanne's heart, and immediately she

was filled with hatred of this woman who had stolen her son from her,

an unappeasable, savage hate, the hatred of a jealous mother. Until

now all her thoughts had been given to Paul. She scarcely took into

consideration that a girl had been the cause of his vagaries. But the

baron's words had suddenly brought before her this rival, had revealed

her fatal power, and she felt that between herself and this woman a

struggle was about to begin, and she also felt that she would rather

lose her son than share his affection with another. And all her joy

was at an end.

They sent him the fifteen thousand francs and heard nothing more from

him for five months.

Then a business man came to settle the details of Julien's

inheritance. Jeanne and the baron handed over the accounts without any

discussion, even giving up the interest that should come to his

mother. When Paul came back to Paris he had a hundred and twenty

thousand francs. He then wrote four letters in six months, giving his

news in concise terms and ending the letters with coldly affectionate

expressions. "I am working," he said; "I have obtained a position on

the stock exchange. I hope to go and embrace you at 'The Poplars' some

day, my dear parents."

He did not mention his companion, and this silence implied more than

if he had filled four pages with news of her. Jeanne, in these cold

letters, felt this woman in ambush, the implacable, eternal enemy of

mothers, the courtesan.

The three lonely beings discussed the best plan to follow in order to

rescue Paul, but could decide on nothing. A voyage to Paris? What good

would it do?

"Let his passion exhaust itself. He will come back then of his own

accord," said the baron.

Some time passed without any further news. But one morning they were

terrified at the receipt of a despairing letter:

"My Poor Mamma: I am lost. There is nothing left for me to do but to

blow out my brains unless you come to my aid. A speculation that gave

every prospect of success has fallen through, and I am eighty-five

thousand dollars in debt. I shall be dishonored if I do not pay

up--ruined--and it will henceforth be impossible for me to do

anything. I am lost. I repeat that I would rather blow out my brains

than undergo this disgrace. I should have done so already, probably,

but for the encouragement of a woman of whom I never speak to you,

and who is my providence.

"I embrace you from the bottom of my heart, my dear mamma--perhaps for

the last time. Good-by.

"Paul."

A package of business papers accompanying the letter gave the details

of the failure.

The baron answered by return mail that they would see what could be

done. Then he set out for Havre to get advice and he mortgaged some

property to raise the money which was sent to Paul.

The young man wrote three letters full of the most heartfelt thanks

and passionate affection, saying he was coming home at once to see his

dear parents.

But he did not come.

A whole year passed. Jeanne and the baron were about to set out for

Paris to try and make a last effort, when they received a line to say

that he was in London again, setting an enterprise on foot in

connection with steamboats under the name of "Paul de Lamare & Co." He

wrote: "This will give me an assured fortune, and perhaps great

wealth, and I am risking nothing. You can see at once what a splendid

thing it is. When I see you again I shall have a fine position in

society. There is nothing but business these days to help you out of

difficulties."

Three months later the steamboat company failed and the manager was

being sought for on account of certain irregularities in business

methods. Jeanne had a nervous attack that lasted several hours and

then she took to her bed.

The baron again went to Havre to make inquiries, saw some lawyers,

some business men, some solicitors and bailiffs and found that the

liabilities of the De Lamare concern were two hundred and thirty-five

thousand francs, and he once more mortgaged some property. The château

of "The Poplars" and the two farms and all that went with them were

mortgaged for a large sum.

One evening as he was arranging the final details in the office of a

business man, he fell over on the floor with a stroke of apoplexy.

A man was sent on horseback to notify Jeanne, but when she arrived he

was dead.

She took his body back to "The Poplars," so overcome that her grief

was numbness rather than despair.

Abbé Tolbiac refused to permit the body to be brought to the church,

despite the distracted entreaties of the two women. The baron was

interred at twilight without any religious ceremony.

Paul learned of the event through one of the men who was settling up

his affairs. He was still in hiding in England. He wrote to make

excuses for not having come home, saying that he had learned of his

grandfather's death too late. "However, now that you have helped me

out of my difficulties, my dear mamma, I shall go back to France and

hope to embrace you soon."

Jeanne was so crushed in spirit that she appeared not to understand

anything. Toward the end of the winter Aunt Lison, who was now

sixty-eight, had an attack of bronchitis that developed into pneumonia,

and she died quietly, murmuring with her last breath: "My poor

little Jeanne, I will ask God to take pity on you."

Jeanne followed her to the grave, and as the earth fell on her coffin

she sank to the ground, wishing that she might die also, so as not to

suffer, to think. A strong peasant woman lifted her up and carried her

away as if she had been a child.

When she reached the château Jeanne, who had spent the last five

nights at Aunt Lison's bedside, allowed herself to be put to bed

without resistance by this unknown peasant woman, who handled her with

gentleness and firmness, and she fell asleep from exhaustion, overcome

with weariness and suffering.

She awoke about the middle of the night. A night light was burning on

the mantelpiece. A woman was asleep in her easy chair. Who was this

woman? She did not recognize her, and leaning over the edge of her

bed, she sought to examine her features by the dim light of the wick

floating in oil in a tumbler of water.

It seemed to her that she had seen this face. But when, but where? The

woman was sleeping peacefully, her head to one side and her cap on the

floor. She might be about forty or forty-five. She was stout, with a

high color, squarely built and powerful. Her large hands hung down at

either side of the chair. Her hair was turning gray. Jeanne looked at

her fixedly, her mind in the disturbed condition of one awaking from a

feverish sleep after a great sorrow.

She had certainly seen this face! Was it in former days? Was it of

late years? She could not tell, and the idea distressed her, upset her

nerves. She rose noiselessly to take another look at the sleeping

woman, walking over on tiptoe. It was the woman who had lifted her up

in the cemetery and then put her to bed. She remembered this

confusedly.

But had she met her elsewhere at some other time of her life or did

she only imagine she recognized her amid the confused recollections of

the day before? And how did she come to be there in her room and why?

The woman opened her eyes and, seeing Jeanne, she rose to her feet

suddenly. They stood face to face, so close that they touched one

another. The stranger said crossly: "What! are you up? You will be

ill, getting up at this time of night. Go back to bed!"

"Who are you?" asked Jeanne.

But the woman, opening her arms, picked her up and carried her back to

her bed with the strength of a man. And as she laid her down gently

and drew the covers over her, she leaned over close to Jeanne and,

weeping as she did so, she kissed her passionately on the cheeks, her

hair, her eyes, the tears falling on her face as she stammered out:

"My poor mistress, Mam'zelle Jeanne, my poor mistress, don't you

recognize me?"

"Rosalie, my girl!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms round her neck and

hugging her as she kissed her, and they sobbed together, clasped in

each other's arms.

Rosalie was the first to regain her calmness. "Come," she said, "you

must be sensible and not catch cold." And she covered her up warm and

straightened the pillow under her former mistress' head. The latter

continued to sob, trembling all over at the recollections that were

awakened in her mind. She finally inquired: "How did you come back, my

poor girl?"

"Pardi! do you suppose I was going to leave you all alone like that,

now?" replied Rosalie.

"Light a candle, so I may see you," said Jeanne. And when the candle

was brought to the bedside they looked at each other for some time

without speaking a word. Then Jeanne, holding out her hand to her

former maid, murmured: "I should not have recognized you, my girl, you

have changed greatly; did you know it? But not as much as I have." And

Rosalie, looking at this white-haired woman, thin and faded, whom she

had left a beautiful and fresh young woman, said: "That is true, you

have changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you should. But remember,

however, that we have not seen each other for twenty-five years."

They were silent, thinking over the past. At length Jeanne said

hesitatingly: "Have you been happy?"

Rosalie, fearful of awakening certain painful souvenirs, stammered

out: "Why--yes--yes--madame. I have nothing much to complain of. I

have been happier than you have--that is sure. There was only one

thing that always weighed on my heart, and that was that I did not

stay here--" And she stopped suddenly, sorry she had referred to that

unintentionally. But Jeanne replied gently: "How could you help it, my

girl? One cannot always do as they wish. You are a widow now, also,

are you not?" Then her voice trembled with emotion as she said: "Have

you other--other children?"

"No, madame."

"And he--your--your boy--what has become of him? Has he turned out

well?"

"Yes, madame, he is a good boy and works industriously. He has been

married for six months, and he can take my farm now, since I have come

back to you."

Jeanne murmured in a trembling voice: "Then you will never leave me

again, my girl?"

"No, indeed, madame, I have arranged all that."

Jeanne, in spite of herself, began to compare their lives, but without

any bitterness, for she was now resigned to the unjust cruelty of

fate. She said: "And your husband, how did he treat you?"

"Oh, he was a good man, madame, and not lazy; he knew how to make

money. He died of consumption."

Then Jeanne, sitting up in bed, filled with a longing to know more,

said: "Come, tell me everything, my girl, all about your life. It will

do me good just now."

Rosalie, drawing up her chair, began to tell about herself, her home,

her people, entering into those minute details dear to country people,

describing her yard, laughing at some old recollection that reminded

her of good times she had had, and raising her voice by degrees like a

farmer's wife accustomed to command. She ended by saying: "Oh, I am

well off now. I don't have to worry." Then she became confused again,

and said in a lower tone: "It is to you that I owe it, anyhow; and you

know I do not want any wages. No, indeed! No, indeed! And if you will

not have it so, I will go."

Jeanne replied: "You do not mean that you are going to serve me for

nothing?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I have almost

as much as you. Do you know what is left to you will all your jumble

of mortgages and borrowing, and interests unpaid which are mounting up

every year? Do you know? No, is it not so? Well, then, I can promise

you that you have not even ten thousand francs income. Not ten

thousand, do you understand? But I will settle all that for you, and

very quickly."

She had begun talking loud again, carried away in her indignation at

these interests left unpaid, at this threatening ruin. And as a faint,

tender smile passed over the face of her mistress, she cried in a tone

of annoyance: "You must not laugh, madame, for without money we are

nothing but laborers."

Jeanne took hold of her hands and kept them in her own; then she said

slowly, still full of the idea that haunted her: "Oh, I have had no

luck. Everything has gone against me. Fate has a grudge against my

life."

But Rosalie shook her head: "You must not say that, madame. You

married badly, that's all. One should not marry like that, anyway,

without knowing anything about one's intended."

And they went on talking about themselves just as two old friends

might have done.

The sun rose while they were still talking.

CHAPTER XII

A NEW HOME

In a week's time Rosalie had taken absolute control of everything and

everyone in the château. Jeanne was quite resigned and obeyed

passively. Weak and dragging her feet as she walked, as little mother

had formerly done, she went out walking leaning on Rosalie's arm, the

latter lecturing her and consoling her with abrupt and tender words as

they walked slowly along, treating her mistress as though she were a

sick child.

They always talked of bygone days, Jeanne with tears in her throat,

and Rosalie in the quiet tone of a phlegmatic peasant. The servant

kept referring to the subject of unpaid interests; and at last

requested Jeanne to give her up all the business papers that Jeanne,

in her ignorance of money matters, was hiding from her, out of

consideration for her son.

After that, for a week, Rosalie went to Fécamp every day to have

matters explained to her by a lawyer whom she knew.

One evening, after having put her mistress to bed, she sat down by the

bedside and said abruptly: "Now that you are settled quietly, madame,

we will have a chat." And she told her exactly how matters stood.

When everything was settled, there would be about seven thousand

francs of income left, no more.

"We cannot help it, my girl," said Jeanne. "I feel that I shall not

make old bones, and there will be quite enough for me."

But Rosalie was annoyed: "For you, madame, it might be; but M.

Paul--will you leave nothing for him?"

Jeanne shuddered. "I beg you not to mention him again. It hurts me too

much to think about him."

"But I wish to speak about him, because you see you are not brave,

Madame Jeanne. He does foolish things. Well! what of it? He will not

do so always; and then he will marry and have children. He will need

money to bring them up. Pay attention to me: you must sell 'The

Poplars.'"

Jeanne sprang up in a sitting posture. "Sell 'The Poplars'! Do you

mean it? Oh, never, never!"

But Rosalie was not disturbed. "I tell you that you will sell the

place, madame, because it must be done." And then she explained her

calculations, her plans, her reasons.

Once they had sold "The Poplars" and the two farms belonging to it to

a buyer whom she had found, they would keep four farms situated at St.

Leonard, which, free of all mortgage, would bring in an income of

eight thousand three hundred francs. They would set aside thirteen

hundred francs a year for repairs and for the upkeep of the property;

there would then remain seven thousand francs, five thousand of which

would cover the annual expenditures and the other two thousand would

be put away for a rainy day.

She added: "All the rest has been squandered; there is an end of it.

And then I am to keep the key, you understand. As for M. Paul, he will

have nothing left, nothing; he would take your last sou from you."

Jeanne, who was weeping silently, murmured:

"But if he has nothing to eat?"

"He can come and eat with us if he is hungry. There will always be a

bed and some stew for him. Do you believe he would have acted as he

has done if you had not given him a sou in the first place?"

"But he was in debt, he would have been disgraced."

"When you have nothing left, will that prevent him from making fresh

debts? You have paid his debts, that is all right; but you will not

pay any more; it is I who am telling you this. Now goodnight, madame."

And she left the room.

Jeanne did not sleep, she was so upset at the idea of selling "The

Poplars," of going away, of leaving this house to which all her life

was linked.

When Rosalie came into the room next morning she said to her: "My poor

girl, I never could make up my mind to go away from here."

But the servant grew angry: "It will have to be, however, madame; the

lawyer will soon be here with the man who wants to buy the château.

Otherwise, in four years you will not have a rap left."

Jeanne was crushed, and repeated: "I could not do it; I never could."

An hour later the postman brought her a letter from Paul asking for

ten thousand francs. What should she do? At her wit's end, she

consulted Rosalie, who threw up her hands, exclaiming: "What was I

telling you, madame? Ah! You would have been in a nice fix, both of

you, if I had not come back." And Jeanne, bending to her servant's

will, wrote as follows to the young man:

"My Dear Son: I can do nothing more for you. You have ruined me; I am

even obliged to sell 'The Poplars.' But never forget that I shall

always have a home whenever you want to seek shelter with your old

mother, to whom you have caused much suffering. Jeanne."

When the notary arrived with M. Jeoffrin, a retired sugar refiner, she

received them herself, and invited them to look over the château.

A month later, she signed a deed of sale, and also bought herself a

little cottage in the neighborhood of Goderville, on the high road to

Montiviliers, in the hamlet of Batteville.

Then she walked up and down all alone until evening, in little

mother's avenue, with a sore heart and troubled mind, bidding

distracted and sobbing farewells to the landscape, the trees, the

rustic bench under the plane tree, to all those things she knew so

well and that seemed to have become part of her vision and her soul,

the grove, the mound overlooking the plain, where she had so often

sat, and from where she had seen the Comte de Fourville running toward

the sea on that terrible day of Julian's death, to an old elm whose

upper branches were missing, against which she had often leaned, and

to all this familiar garden spot.

Rosalie came out and took her by the arm to make her come into the

house.

A tall young peasant of twenty-five was waiting outside the door. He

greeted her in a friendly manner as if he had known her for some time:

"Good-morning, Madame Jeanne. I hope you are well. Mother told me to

come and help you move. I would like to know what you are going to

take away, seeing that I shall do it from time to time so as not to

interfere with my farm work."

It was her maid's son, Julien's son, Paul's brother.

She felt as if her heart stopped beating; and yet she would have liked

to embrace this young fellow.

She looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to her husband or

to her son. He was ruddy, vigorous, with fair hair and his mother's

blue eyes. And yet he looked like Julien. In what way? How? She could

not have told, but there was something like him in the whole makeup of

his face.

The young man resumed: "If you could show me at once, I should be much

obliged."

But she had not yet decided what she was going to take with her, as

her new home was very small; and she begged him to come back again at

the end of the week.

She was now entirely occupied with getting ready to move, which

brought a little variety into her very dreary and hopeless life. She

went from room to room, picking out the furniture which recalled

episodes in her life, old friends, as it were, who have a share in our

life and almost of our being, whom we have known since childhood, and

to which are linked our happy or sad recollections, dates in our

history; silent companions of our sad or sombre hours, who have grown

old and become worn at our side, their covers torn in places, their

joints shaky, their color faded.

She selected them, one by one, sometimes hesitating and troubled, as

if she were taking some important step, changing her mind every

instant, weighing the merits of two easy chairs or of some old

writing-desk and an old work table.

She opened the drawers, sought to recall things; then, when she had

said to herself, "Yes, I will take this," the article was taken down

into the dining-room.

She wished to keep all the furniture of her room, her bed, her

tapestries, her clock, everything.

She took away some of the parlor chairs, those that she had loved as a

little child; the fox and the stork, the fox and the crow, the ant and

the grasshopper, and the melancholy heron.

Then, while wandering about in all the corners of this dwelling she

was going to forsake, she went one day up into the loft, where she was

filled with amazement; it was a chaos of articles of every kind, some

broken, others tarnished only, others taken up there for no special

reason probably, except that they were tired of them or that they had

been replaced by others. She saw numberless knick-knacks that she

remembered, and that had disappeared suddenly, trifles that she had

handled, those old little insignificant articles that she had seen

every day without noticing, but which now, discovered in this loft,

assumed an importance as of forgotten relics, of friends that she had

found again.

She went from one to the other of them with a little pang, saying:

"Why, it was I who broke that china cup a few evenings before my

wedding. Ah! there is mother's little lantern and a cane that little

father broke in trying to open the gate when the wood was swollen with

the rain."

There were also a number of things that she did not remember that had

belonged to her grandparents or to their parents, dusty things that

appeared to be exiled in a period that is not their own, and that

looked sad at their abandonment, and whose history, whose experiences

no one knows, for they never saw those who chose them, bought them,

owned them, and loved them; never knew the hands that had touched them

familiarly, and the eyes that looked at them with delight.

Jeanne examined carefully three-legged chairs to see if they recalled

any memories, a copper warming pan, a damaged foot stove that she

thought she remembered, and a number of housekeeping utensils unfit

for use.

She then put together all the things she wished to take, and going

downstairs, sent Rosalie up to get them. The servant indignantly

refused to bring down "that rubbish." But Jeanne, who had not much

will left, held her own this time, and had to be obeyed.

One morning the young farmer, Julien's son, Denis Lecoq, came with his

wagon for the first load. Rosalie went back with him in order to

superintend the unloading and placing of furniture where it was to

stand.

Rosalie had come back and was waiting for Jeanne, who had been out on

the cliff. She was enchanted with the new house, declaring it was much

more cheerful than this old box of a building, which was not even on

the side of the road.

Jeanne wept all the evening.

Ever since they heard that the château was sold, the farmers were not

more civil to her than necessary, calling her among themselves "the

crazy woman," without knowing exactly why, but doubtless because they

guessed with their animal instinct at her morbid and increasing

sentimentality, at all the disturbance of her poor mind that had

undergone so much sorrow.

The night before they left she chanced to go into the stable. A growl

made her start. It was Massacre, whom she had hardly thought of for

months. Blind and paralyzed, having reached a great age for an animal,

he existed in a straw bed, taken care of by Ludivine, who never forgot

him. She took him in her arms, kissed him, and carried him into the

house. As big as a barrel, he could scarcely carry himself along on

his stiff legs, and he barked like the wooden dogs that one gives to

children.

The day of departure finally came. Jeanne had slept in Julien's old

room, as hers was dismantled. She got up exhausted and short of breath

as if she had been running. The carriage containing the trunks and the

rest of the furniture was in the yard ready to start. Another

two-wheeled vehicle was to take Jeanne and the servant. Old Simon and

Ludivine were to stay until the arrival of a new proprietor, and then

to go to some of their relations, Jeanne having provided a little

income for them. They had also saved up some money, and being now very

old and garrulous, they were not of much use in the house. Marius had

long since married and left.

About eight o'clock it began to rain, a fine icy rain, driven by a

light breeze. On the kitchen table, some cups of café au lait were

steaming. Jeanne sat down and sipped hers, then rising, she said,

"Come along."

She put on her hat and shawl, and while Rosalie was putting on her

overshoes, she said in a choking voice: "Do you remember, my girl, how

it rained when we left Rouen to come here?"

As she said this, she put her two hands to her breast and fell over on

her back, unconscious. She remained thus over an hour, apparently

dead. Then she opened her eyes and was seized with convulsions

accompanied by floods of tears.

When she was a little calmer she was so weak that she could not stand

up, and Rosalie, fearing another attack if they delayed their

departure, went to look for her son. They took her up and carried her

to the carriage, placed her on the wooden bench covered with leather;

and the old servant got in beside her, wrapped her up with a big

cloak, and holding an umbrella over her head, cried: "Quick, Denis,

let us be off." The young man climbed up beside his mother and whipped

up the horse, whose jerky pace made the two women bounce about

vigorously.

As they turned the corner to enter the village, they saw some one

stalking along the road; it was Abbé Tolbiac, who seemed to be

watching for them to go by. He stopped to let the carriage pass. He

was holding up his cassock with one hand, to keep it out of the mud,

and his thin legs, encased in black stockings, ended in a pair of

enormous muddy shoes.

Jeanne lowered her eyes so as not to meet his glance, and Rosalie, who

had heard all about him, flew into a rage. "Peasant! Peasant!" she

murmured; and then seizing her son's hand: "Give him a good slash with

the whip."

But the young man, just as they were passing the priest, made the

wheel of the wagon, which was going at full speed, sink into a rut,

splashing the abbé with mud from head to foot.

Rosalie was delighted and turned round to shake her fist at him, while

the priest was wiping off the mud with his big handkerchief.

All at once Jeanne exclaimed: "We have forgotten Massacre!" They

stopped, and, getting down, Denis ran to fetch the dog, while Rosalie

held the reins. He presently reappeared, carrying in his arms the

shapeless and crippled animal, which he placed at the feet of the two

women.

CHAPTER XIII

JEANNE IN PARIS

Two hours later the carriage stopped at a little brick house built in

the middle of a lot planted with pear trees at the side of the high

road.

Four trellised arbors covered with honeysuckle and clematis formed the

four corners of the garden, which was divided into little beds of

vegetables separated by narrow paths bordered with fruit trees.

A very high box hedge enclosed the whole property, which was separated

by a field from the neighboring farm. There was a blacksmith's shop

about a hundred feet further along the road. There were no other

houses within three-quarters of a mile.

The house commanded a view of the level district of Caux, covered with

farms surrounded by their four double rows of tall trees which

enclosed the courtyard planted with apple trees.

As soon as they reached the house, Jeanne wanted to rest; but Rosalie

would not allow her to do so for fear she would begin to think of the

past.

The carpenter from Goderville was there, and they began at once to

place the furniture that had already arrived while waiting for the

last load. This required a good deal of thought and planning.

At the end of an hour the wagon appeared at the gate and had to be

unloaded in the rain. When night fell the house was in utter disorder,

with things piled up anyhow. Jeanne, tired out, fell asleep as soon as

she got into bed.

She had no time to mourn for some days, as there was so much to be

done. She even took a certain pleasure in making her new house look

pretty, the thought that her son would come back there haunting her

continually. The tapestries from her old room were hung in the

dining-room, which also had to serve as a parlor; and she took special

pains with one of the two rooms on the first floor, which she thought

of as "Poulet's room."

She kept the other room herself, Rosalie sleeping above, next to the

loft. The little house, furnished with care, was very pretty, and

Jeanne was happy there at first, although she seemed to lack

something, but she did not know what.

One morning the lawyer's clerk from Fécamp brought her three thousand

six hundred francs, the price of the furniture left at "The Poplars,"

and valued by an upholsterer. She had a little thrill of pleasure at

receiving this money, and as soon as the man had gone, she ran to put

on her hat, so as to get to Goderville as quickly as possible to send

Paul this unexpected sum.

But as she was hurrying along the high road she met Rosalie coming

from market. The servant suspected something, without at once guessing

the facts; and when she discovered them, for Jeanne could hide nothing

from her, she placed her basket on the ground that she might get angry

with more comfort.

She began to scold with her fists on her hips; then taking hold of her

mistress with her right arm and taking her basket in her left, and

still fuming, she continued on her way to the house.

As soon as they were in the house the servant asked to have the money

handed over to her. Jeanne gave all but six hundred francs, which she

held back; but Rosalie soon saw through her tricks, and she was

obliged to hand it all over. However, she consented to her sending

this amount to the young man.

A few days later he wrote: "You have rendered me a great service, my

dear mother, for we were in the greatest distress."

Jeanne, however, could not get accustomed to Batteville. It seemed to

her as if she could not breathe as she did formerly, that she was more

lonely, more deserted, more lost than ever. She went out for a walk,

got as far as the hamlet of Verneuil, came back by the Trois-Mares,

came home, then suddenly wanted to start out again, as if she had

forgotten to go to the very place she intended.

And every day she did the same thing without knowing why. But one

evening a thought came to her unconsciously which revealed to her the

secret of her restlessness. She said as she was sitting down to

dinner: "Oh, how I long to see the sea!"

That was what she had missed so greatly, the sea, her big neighbor for

twenty-five years, the sea with its salt air, its rages, its scolding

voice, its strong breezes, the sea which she sought from her window at

"The Poplars" every morning, whose air she breathed day and night, the

sea which she felt close to her, which she had taken to loving

unconsciously as she would a person.

Winter was approaching, and Jeanne felt herself overcome by an

unconquerable discouragement. It was not one of those acute griefs

which seemed to wring the heart, but a dreary, mournful sadness.

Nothing roused her. No one paid any attention to her. The high road

before her door stretched to right and left with hardly any passersby.

Occasionally a dogcart passed rapidly, driven by a red-faced man, with

his blouse puffed out by the wind, making a sort of blue balloon;

sometimes a slow-moving wagon, or else two peasants, a man and a

woman, who came near, passed by, and disappeared in the distance.

As soon as the grass began to grow again, a young girl in a short

skirt passed by the gate every morning with two thin cows who browsed

along the side of the road. She came back every evening with the same

sleepy face, making a step every ten minutes as she walked behind the

animals.

Jeanne dreamed every night that she was still at "The Poplars." She

seemed to be there with father and little mother, and sometimes even

with Aunt Lison. She did over again things forgotten and done with,

thought she was supporting Madame Adelaide in her walk along the

avenue. And each awakening was attended with tears.

She thought continually of Paul, wondering what he was doing--how he

was--whether he sometimes thought of her. As she walked slowly in the

by-roads between the farms, she thought over all these things which

tormented her, but above all else, she cherished an intense jealousy

of the woman who had stolen her son from her. It was this hatred alone

which prevented her from taking any steps, from going to look for him,

to see him. It seemed to her that she saw that woman standing on the

doorsill asking: "What do you want here, madame?" Her mother's pride

revolted at the possibility of such a meeting. And her haughty pride

of a good woman whose character is blameless made her all the more

indignant at the cowardice of a man subjugated by an unworthy passion.

When autumn returned with its long rains, its gray sky, its dark

clouds, such a weariness of this kind of life came over her that she

determined to make a great effort to get her Poulet back; he must have

got over his infatuation by this time.

She wrote him an imploring letter:

"My Dear Child: I am going to entreat you to come back to me. Remember

that I am old and delicate, all alone the whole year round except for

a servant maid. I am now living in a little house on the main road. It

is very lonely, but if you were here all would be different for me. I

have only you in the world, and I have not seen you for seven years!

You were my life, my dream, my only hope, my one love, and you failed

me, you deserted me!

"Oh, come back, my little Poulet--come and embrace me. Come back to

your old mother, who holds out her despairing arms towards you.

"Jeanne."

He replied a few days later:

"My Dear Mother: I would ask nothing better than to go and see you,

but I have not a penny. Send me some money and I will come. I wanted,

in any case, to see you to talk to you about a plan that would make it

possible for me to do as you ask.

"The disinterestedness and love of the one who has been my companion

in the dark days through which I have passed can never be forgotten by

me. It is not possible for me to remain any longer without publicly

recognizing her love and her faithful devotion. She has very pleasing

manners, which you would appreciate. She is also educated and reads a

good deal. In fact, you cannot understand what she has been to me. I

should be a brute if I did not show her my gratitude. I am going,

therefore, to ask you to give me your permission to marry her. You

will forgive all my follies and we will all live together in your new

house.

"If you knew her you would at once give your consent. I can assure you

that she is perfect and very distingué. You will love her, I am sure.

As for me, I could not live without her.

"I shall expect your reply with impatience, my dear mother, and we

both embrace you with all our heart.

"Your son,

"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."

Jeanne was crushed. She remained motionless, the letter on her lap,

seeing through the cunning of this girl who had had such a hold on her

son for so long, and had not let him come to see her once, biding her

time until the despairing old mother could no longer resist the desire

to clasp her son in her arms, and would weaken and grant all they

asked.

And grief at Paul's persistent preference for this creature wrung her

heart. She said: "He does not love me. He does not love me."

Rosalie just then entered the room. Jeanne faltered: "He wants to

marry her now."

The maid was startled. "Oh, madame, you will not allow that. M. Paul

must not pick up that rubbish."

And Jeanne, overcome with emotion, but indignant, replied: "Never

that, my girl. And as he will not come here, I am going to see him,

myself, and we shall see which of us will carry the day."

She wrote at once to Paul to prepare him for her visit, and to arrange

to meet him elsewhere than in the house inhabited by that baggage.

While awaiting a reply she made her preparations for departure.

Rosalie began to pack her mistress' clothes in an old trunk, but as

she was folding a dress, one of those she had worn in the country, she

exclaimed: "Why, you have nothing to put on your back. I will not

allow you to go like that. You would be a disgrace to everyone; and

the Parisian ladies would take you for a servant."

Jeanne let her have her own way, and the two women went together to

Goderville to choose some material, which was given a dressmaker in

the village. Then they went to the lawyer, M. Roussel, who spent a

fortnight in the capital every year, in order to get some information;

for Jeanne had not been in Paris for twenty-eight years.

He gave them lots of advice on how to avoid being run over, on methods

of protecting yourself from thieves, advising her to sew her money up

inside the lining of her coat, and to keep in her pocket only what she

absolutely needed. He spoke at length about moderate priced

restaurants, and mentioned two or three patronized by women, and told

them that they might mention his name at the Hotel Normandie.

Jeanne had never yet seen the railroad, though trains had been running

between Paris and Havre for six years, and were revolutionizing the

whole country.

She received no answer from Paul, although she waited a week, then two

weeks, going every morning to meet the postman, asking him

hesitatingly: "Is there anything for me, Père Malandain?" And the man

always replied in his hoarse voice: "Nothing again, my good lady."

It certainly must be this woman who was keeping Paul from writing.

Jeanne, therefore, determined to set out at once. She wanted to take

Rosalie with her, but the maid refused for fear of increasing the

expense of the journey. She did not allow her mistress to take more

than three hundred francs, saying: "If you need more you can write to

me and I will go to the lawyer and ask him to send it to you. If I

give you any more, M. Paul will put it in his pocket."

One December morning Denis Lecoq came for them in his light wagon and

took them to the station. Jeanne wept as she kissed Rosalie good-by,

and got into the train. Rosalie was also affected and said: "Good-by,

madame, bon voyage, and come back soon!"

"Good-by, my girl."

A whistle and the train was off, beginning slowly and gradually going

with a speed that terrified Jeanne. In her compartment there were two

gentlemen leaning back in the two corners of the carriage.

She looked at the country as they swept past, the trees, the farms,

the villages, feeling herself carried into a new life, into a new

world that was no longer the life of her tranquil youth and of her

present monotonous existence.

She reached Paris that evening. A commissionaire took her trunk and

she followed him in great fear, jostled by the crowd and not knowing

how to make her way amid this mass of moving humanity, almost running

to keep up with the man for fear of losing sight of him.

On reaching the hotel she said at the desk: "I was recommended here by

M. Roussel."

The proprietress, an immense woman with a serious face, who was seated

at the desk, inquired:

"Who is he--M. Roussel?"

Jeanne replied in amazement: "Why, he is the lawyer at Goderville, who

stops here every year."

"That's very possible," said the big woman, "but I do not know him. Do

you wish a room?"

"Yes, madame."

A boy took her satchel and led the way upstairs. She felt a pang at

her heart. Sitting down at a little table she sent for some luncheon,

as she had eaten nothing since daybreak. As she ate, she was thinking

sadly of a thousand things, recalling her stay here on the return from

her wedding journey, and the first indication of Julien's character

betrayed while they were in Paris. But she was young then, and

confident and brave. Now she felt old, embarrassed, even timid, weak

and disturbed at trifles. When she had finished her luncheon she went

over to the window and looked down on the street filled with people.

She wished to go out, but was afraid to do so. She would surely get

lost. She went to bed, but the noise, the feeling of being in a

strange city, kept her awake. About two o'clock in the morning, just

as she was dozing off, she heard a woman scream in an adjoining room;

she sat up in bed and then she thought she heard a man laugh. As

daylight dawned the thought of Paul came to her, and she dressed

herself before it was light.

Paul lived in the Rue du Sauvage, in the old town. She wanted to go

there on foot so as to carry out Rosalie's economical advice. The

weather was delightful, the air cold enough to make her skin tingle.

People were hurrying along the sidewalks. She walked as fast as she

could, according to directions given her, along a street, at the end

of which she was to turn to the right and then to the left, when she

would come to a square where she must make fresh inquiries. She did

not find the square, and went into a baker's to ask her way, and he

directed her differently. She started off again, went astray, inquired

her way again, and finally got lost completely.

Half crazy, she now walked at random. She had made up her mind to call

a cab, when she caught sight of the Seine. She then walked along the

quays.

After about an hour she found the Rue Sauvage, a sort of dark alley.

She stopped at a door, so overcome that she could not move.

He was there, in that house--Poulet.

She felt her knees and hands trembling; but at last she entered the

door, and walking along a passage, saw the janitor's quarters. She

said, as she held out a piece of money: "Would you go up and tell M.

Paul de Lamare that an old lady, a friend of his mother's, is

downstairs, and wishes to see him?"

"He does not live here any longer, madame," replied the janitor.

A shudder went over her. She faltered:

"Oh! Where--where is he living now?"

"I do not know."

She grew dizzy as though she were about to fall over, and stood there

for some moments without being able to speak. At length, with a great

effort, she collected her senses and murmured:

"How long is it since he left?"

"About two weeks ago. They went off like that, one evening, and never

came back. They were in debt everywhere in the neighborhood, so you

can understand that they did not care to leave their address."

Jeanne saw lights before her eyes, flashes of flame, as though a gun

had been fired off in front of her eyes. But she had one fixed idea in

her mind, and that sustained her, and kept her outwardly calm and

rational. She wished to find Poulet and know all about him.

"Then he said nothing when he was going away?"

"Nothing at all; they ran off to escape their debts, that's all."

"But he surely sends someone to get his mail."

"More frequently than I send it. He never got more than ten letters a

year. I took one up to them, however, two days before they left."

That was probably her letter. She said abruptly: "Listen! I am his

mother, his own mother, and I have come to look for him. Here are ten

francs for you. If you can get any news or any particulars about him,

come and see me at the Hotel Normandie, Rue du Havre, and I will pay

you well."

"You may count on me, madame," he replied.

She left him and began to walk away without caring whither she went.

She hurried along as though she were on some important business,

knocking up against people with packages, crossing the streets without

paying attention to the approaching vehicles, and being sworn at by

the drivers, stumbling on the curb of the sidewalk, and tearing along

straight ahead in utter despair.

All at once she found herself in a garden, and was so tired that she

sat down on a bench to rest. She stayed there some time apparently,

weeping without being conscious of it, for passersby stopped to look

at her. Then she felt very cold, and rose to go on her way; but her

legs would scarcely carry her, she was so weak and distressed.

She wanted to go into a restaurant and get a cup of bouillon, but a

sort of shame, of fear, of modesty at her grief being observed held

her back. She would pause at the door, look in, see all the people

sitting at table eating, and would turn away, saying: "I will go into

the next one." But she had not the courage.

Finally she went into a bakery and bought a crescent and ate it as she

walked along. She was very thirsty, but did not know where to go to

get something to drink, so did without it.

Presently she found herself in another garden surrounded by arcades.

She recognized the Palais Royal. Being tired and warm, she sat down

here for an hour or two.

A crowd of people came in, a well-dressed crowd, chatting, smiling,

bowing to each other, that happy crowd of beautiful women and wealthy

men who live only for dress and amusement. Jeanne felt bewildered in

the midst of this brilliant assemblage, and got up to make her escape.

But suddenly the thought came to her that she might meet Paul in this

place; and she began to wander about, looking into the faces, going

and coming incessantly with her quick step from one end of the garden

to the other.

People turned round to look at her, others laughed as they pointed her

out. She noticed it and fled, thinking that they were doubtless amused

at her appearance and at her dress of green plaid, selected by

Rosalie, and made according to her ideas by the dressmaker at

Goderville.

She no longer dared even to ask her way of passersby, but at last she

ventured to do so and found her way back to the hotel.

The following day she went to the police department to ask them to

look for her child. They could promise her nothing, but said they

would do all they could. She wandered about the streets hoping that

she might come across him. And she felt more alone in this bustling

crowd, more lost, more wretched than in the lonely country.

That evening when she came back to the hotel she was informed that a

man had come to see her from M. Paul, and that he would come back

again the following day. Her heart began to beat violently and she

never closed her eyes that night. If it should be he! Yes, it

assuredly was, although she would not have recognized him from the

description they gave her.

About nine o'clock the following morning there was a knock at the

door. She cried: "Come in!" ready to throw herself into certain

outstretched arms. But an unknown person appeared; and while he

excused himself for disturbing her, and explained his business, which

was to collect a debt of Paul's, she felt the tears beginning to

overflow, and wiped them away with her finger before they fell on her

cheeks.

He had learned of her arrival through the janitor of the Rue Sauvage,

and as he could not find the young man, he had come to see his mother.

He handed her a paper, which she took without knowing what she was

doing and read the figures--ninety francs--which she paid without a

word.

She did not go out that day.

The next day other creditors came. She gave them all that she had left

except twenty francs and then wrote to Rosalie to explain matters to

her.

She passed her days wandering about, waiting for Rosalie's answer, not

knowing what to do, how to kill the melancholy, interminable hours,

having no one to whom she could say an affectionate word, no one who

knew her sorrow. She now longed to return home to her little house at

the side of the lonely high road. A few days before she thought she

could not live there, she was so overcome with grief, and now she felt

that she could never live anywhere else but there where her serious

character had been formed.

One evening the letter at last came, enclosing two hundred francs.

Rosalie wrote:

"Madame Jeanne: Come back at once, for I shall not send you any more.

As for M. Paul, it is I who will go and get him when we know where he

is.

"With respect, your servant,

"Rosalie."

Jeanne set out for Batteville one very cold, snowy morning.

CHAPTER XIV

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She rose at the same

hour every day, looked out at the weather and then went downstairs and

sat before the parlor fire.

She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the fire, thinking

of nothing in particular. It would grow dark before she stirred,

except to put a fresh log on the fire. Rosalie would then bring in the

lamp and exclaim: "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or you

will have no appetite again this evening."

She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her early life and her

wedding journey down yonder in Corsica. Forgotten landscapes in that

isle now rose before her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalled

all the little details, all the little incidents, the faces she had

seen down there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, and

she sometimes seemed to hear his voice.

Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's childhood, when they

planted salad together and when she knelt in the thick grass beside

Aunt Lison, each trying what they could do to please the child, and

her lips murmured: "Poulet, my little Poulet," as though she were

talking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to trace it,

letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours at a time, until she

became confused and mixed up the letters and formed other words, and

she became so nervous that she was almost crazy.

She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary life. The

least thing out of its usual place irritated her.

Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the high road, but

at the end of twenty minutes she declared she could not take another

step and sat down on the side of the road.

She soon became averse to all movement and stayed in bed as late as

possible. Since her childhood she had retained one custom, that of

rising the instant she had drunk her café au lait in the morning. But

now she would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was daily

growing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige her to get up and

almost force her to get dressed.

She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each time the maid

asked her a question or wanted her advice or opinion she would say:

"Do as you think best, my girl."

She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill luck and was like

an oriental fatalist, and having seen her dreams all fade away and her

hopes crushed, she would sometimes hesitate a whole day or longer

before undertaking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on the

wrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept repeating: "Talk of

bad luck--I have never had any luck in life."

Then Rosalie would say: "What would you do if you had to work for your

living, if you were obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock to

go out to your work? Many people have to do that, nevertheless, and

when they grow too old they die of want."

Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that my son has

deserted me." And Rosalie would get very angry: "That's another thing!

Well, how about the sons who are drafted into the army and those who

go to America?"

America to her was an undefined country, where one went to make a

fortune and whence one never returned. She continued: "There always

comes a time when people have to part, for old people and young people

are not made to live together." And she added fiercely: "Well, what

would you say if he were dead?"

Jeanne had nothing more to say.

One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look for something

and by chance opened a box containing old calendars which had been

preserved after the manner of some country folks.

She took them up and carried them downstairs. They were of all sizes,

and she laid them out on the table in the parlor in regular order.

Suddenly she spied the earliest, the one she had brought with her to

"The Poplars." She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed off

by her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left the convent,

and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears of an old woman at sight

of her wretched life spread out before her on this table.

One morning the maid came into her room earlier than usual, and

placing the bowl of café au lait on the little stand beside her bed,

she said: "Come, drink it quickly. Denis is waiting for us at the

door. We are going to 'The Poplars,'  for I have something to attend

to down there."

Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost fainting at the

thought of seeing her dear home once more.

The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined to be frisky,

would suddenly start off at a gallop every now and then. As they

entered the commune of Étouvent Jeanne's heart beat so that she could

hardly breathe.

They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and while Rosalie

and her son were attending to their own affairs, the farmer and his

wife offered to let Jeanne go over the chateau, as the proprietor was

away and they had the keys.

She went off alone, and when she reached the side of the chateau from

which there was a view of the sea she turned round to look. Nothing

had changed on the outside. When she turned the heavy lock and went

inside the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which she

did not recognize, as it had been newly papered and furnished. But the

view from the window was the same, and she stood and gazed out at the

landscape she had so loved.

She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly all alone in

this silent abode as though it were a cemetery. All her life was

buried here. She went down to the drawing-room, which was dark with

its closed shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light

she recognized some of the old hangings. Two easy chairs were drawn up

before the fire, as if some one had just left them, and as Jeanne

stood there, full of old memories, she suddenly seemed to see her

father and mother sitting there, warming their feet at the fire.

She started back in terror and knocked up against the edge of the

door, against which she leaned to support herself, still staring at

the armchairs.

The vision had vanished.

She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she slowly recovered

her composure and started to run away, for fear she might become

insane. She chanced to look at the door against which she had been

leaning and saw there "Poulet's ladder."

All the little notches were there showing the age and growth of her

child. Here was the baron's writing, then hers, a little smaller, and

then Aunt Lison's rather shaky characters. And she seemed to see her

boy of long ago with his fair hair standing before her, leaning his

little forehead against the door while they measured his height.

And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of affection.

But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's voice: "Madame

Jeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are waiting breakfast for you." She went

out in a dream and understood nothing of what they were saying to her.

She ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about what she

knew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and kissed them in return

and then got into the carriage.

When they lost sight of the château behind the tall trees she felt a

wrench at her heart, convinced that she had bid a last farewell to her

old home.

When they reached Batteville and just as she was going into her new

house, she saw something white under the door. It was a letter that

the postman had slipped under the door while she was out. She

recognized Paul's writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. He

wrote:

"My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish you

to make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and see

you. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife is

dying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I have

not one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom my

janitor's wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but I

fear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutely

do not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse.

Answer by return mail.

"Your son, who loves you,

"Paul."

Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie.

When the maid came into the room they read the letter over together

and then remained silent for some time, face to face.

At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little one, madame. We

cannot leave it like that."

"Go, my girl," replied Jeanne.

Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on your hat, madame,

and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going to

die, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one's sake

later on."

Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joy

filled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at any

cost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishing

it in one's soul--her son's sweetheart was going to die.

The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeat

them several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, she

said: "Do not be afraid. I will see to it now."

She set out for Paris that very night.

Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could not

think. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosalie

saying she would be back on the evening train. That was all.

About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light wagon to the

station at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie.

She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as it

disappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes

still--five minutes still--two minutes more. Then the hour of the

train's arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she saw

a cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. She

looked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort of

white bundle in her arms.

She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weak

and she was afraid of falling.

But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm manner

and said: "How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but not

without some difficulty."

"Well?" faltered Jeanne.

"Well," answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married and

here is the little girl." And she held out the child, who could not be

seen under her wraps.

Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into the

carriage.

"M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over--to-morrow about

this time, I believe," resumed Rosalie.

Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent.

The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urge

on the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear sky

through which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt a

gentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of the

little being who was asleep on her lap.

Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gently

the face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissed

it passionately.

But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; "Come, come, Madame

Jeanne, stop that; you will make it cry."

And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: "Life,

after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be."

A VAGABOND

He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,

twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randel

had been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to the

general lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over a

month and had left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, because

he could find nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family of

the bread they needed themselves, when he was the strongest of them

all. His two sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went and

inquired at the town hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that he

would find work at the Labor Agency, and so he started, well provided

with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, a

pair of trousers and a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of his

stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along

interminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching that

mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed

idea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter's

shop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men on

account of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of his

resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might come

across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman,

stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells,

mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all for

a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionally

by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt the

avarice of employers and peasants.

And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, and

nothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some

women from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It was

getting dark, and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his

stomach empty, and with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on

the grass by the side of the road, for he was taking care of his last

pair of shoes, as the other pair had already ceased to exist for a

long time. It was a Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy gray

clouds were being driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind

which whistled among the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon.

The country was deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here and

there in the fields there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like huge

yellow mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already been

sown for the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger

as drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he

took longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy

head, the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth,

he grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the

first passerby who might be going home to supper.

He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug up

and lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he would

have gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had a

capital supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he would

first of all have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in the

year, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick up

in a field as he had done the day before.

For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened his

steps under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought much

hitherto, as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties to

his mechanical work. But now fatigue and this desperate search for

work which he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the

open air lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew

people with a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that question

which he was continually asked, "Why do you not remain at home?"

distress at not being able to use his strong arms which he felt so

full of vigor, the recollection of the relations he had left at home

and who also had not a penny, filled him by degrees with rage, which

had been accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and which

now escaped his lips in spite of himself in short, growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, he

grumbled: "How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs--to let a man

die of hunger--a carpenter--a set of hogs--not two sous--not two

sous--and now it is raining--a set of hogs!"

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men,

on all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel

and perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set of

hogs" as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs,

for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there is

another injustice which is human, and which is called robbery and

violence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murder

the inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.

He said to himself: "I have no right to live now, as they are letting

me die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work--a set of hogs!" And the

pain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like

terrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his

brain: "I have the right to live because I breathe and because the air

is the common property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leave

me without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped and

murmured: "Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home." He

was indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easily

find work in his native town, where he was known--and he did not mind

what he did--than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. As

the carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn day

laborer, be a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. If

he only earned a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him something

to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck to

prevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but he

soon found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his

clothes were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look of

a man who does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head,

and has no place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the

distance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,

and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her

without exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her

she raised her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jug

I could get a little milk." He looked at the cow and the cow looked at

him, and then, suddenly giving her a kick in the side, he said: "Get

up!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down. Then the

man lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for a

long time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of the

cowstall, with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk.

But the icy rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place of

shelter on the whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked at

a light which was shining among the trees in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side and

stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The

animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two

jets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and he

said: "You are not cold inside there!" He put his hands on her chest

and under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the idea

struck him that he might pass the night beside that large, warm

animal. So he found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side,

and then, as he was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half

frozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal's

flank. Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which

had remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleep

again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer

raining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzle

on the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss

those wide, moist nostrils, and said: "Good-by, my beauty, until next

time. You are a nice animal. Good-by." Then he put on his shoes and

went off, and for two hours walked straight before him, always

following the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down on

the grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church bells

were ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot,

some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the neighboring

villages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score of

frightened, bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel got

up, and raising his cap, said: "You do not happen to have any work for

a man who is dying of hunger?" But the other, giving an angry look at

the vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the

road."

And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditch

again. He waited there for a long time, watching the country people

pass and looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed his

request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was

adorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said,

"for the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou in

my pocket." But the would-be gentleman replied: "You should have read

the notice which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Begging

is prohibited within the boundaries of this parish.' Let me tell you

that I am the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly

I shall have you arrested."

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like;

I should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger." And

he went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about

a quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were

walking slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shining

hats, their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if to

frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew

that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was

seized with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and

to have his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, with

military step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing the

goose step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to have

noticed him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly,

and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you doing here?"

"I am resting," the man replied calmly. "Where do you come from?" "If

I had to tell you all the places I have been to it would take me more

than an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary." "Where is

that?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong?" "It is." "Why did

you leave it?" "To look for work."

The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of a

man who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: "They all say

that, these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Have

you any papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."

Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, those

poor, worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave

them to the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, and

then, having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to

Randel with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer than

himself has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you any

money on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Not

even a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Then

you beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the act

of vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I

command you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Wherever

you please." And, placing himself between the two soldiers, even

before he had received the order to do so, he added: "Well, lock me

up; that will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."

And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could be

seen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Service

was about to begin when they went through the village. The square was

full of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminal

pass. He was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male and

female peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with

hatred in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his

skin with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked

each other whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher,

who was an ex-spahi, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist

thought that he recognized him as the man who had that very morning

passed a bad half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared

that he was the murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had been

looking for for six months.

In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel saw

the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with the

schoolmaster by his side. "Aha! aha!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so

here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you

locked up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without

any resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of

begging, but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are

all in order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,

returned them and then said: "Search him." So they searched him, but

found nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for

work." "Work? On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any if I

hide in the woods?"

They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts which

belong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "I

am going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up before

me again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you locked

me up; I have had enough running about the country." But the

magistrate replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the two

gendarmes: "You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the

village and let him continue his journey."

"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said, but the

other grew indignant: "Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah!

ah! that is rather too much!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you let

me nearly die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime,

and then, so much the worse for you other fat fellows."

The mayor had risen and he repeated: "Take him away immediately or I

shall end by getting angry."

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and

dragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed

through the village again and found himself on the highroad once more;

and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the

village, the brigadier said: "Now off with you and do not let me catch

you about here again, for if I do, you will know it."

Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. He

walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied

that he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing

a small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup

and boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring,

maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls of

the house like a wild beast.

He said aloud in a grumbling voice: "In Heaven's name! they must give

me some this time!" And he began to knock at the door vigorously with

his stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: "Hey!

hey! you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothing

stirred, he went up to the window and pushed it wider open with his

hand, and the close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot

soup, meat and cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with a

bound the carpenter was in the house. Two places were set at the

table, and no doubt the proprietors of the house, on going to church,

had left their dinner on the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef and

vegetable soup, while there was a loaf of new bread on the

chimney-piece, between two bottles which seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as much

violence as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat

voraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost

immediately the smell of the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and,

having taken off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it

and brought out a large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took

more cabbage, carrots and onions until his plate was full, and, having

put it on the table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into four

pieces, and dined as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearly

all the meat, besides a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty and

took one of the bottles off the mantelpiece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it was

brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire

into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and

he drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomed

to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drank at

two gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry and

light-hearted from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some great

happiness filled his heart.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the

soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where

the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring.

Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of

prudence, which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted in

danger, made the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into

one pocket and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went

to the window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so

he jumped out and set off walking again, but instead of following the

highroad he ran across the fields toward a wood he saw a little way

off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so

nimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a single

bound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out of

his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as

he walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew

dim, and his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing the

old popular song:

"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpet

under his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels

as he used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault,

got up and began over again. And between each time he began to sing

again:

"Oh! what joy, what joy it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries."

Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw a

tall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pails

of milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright as

those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head

and said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however,

but jumped down into the road, although it was a fall of at least six

feet and when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she

exclaimed: "Oh! dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by

another requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more

feverish than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has

been deprived of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is

young, ardent and inflamed by all the appetites which nature has

implanted in the vigorous flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his

half-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the

shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the

milk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail

in that lonely spot.

When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled

her with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw it

at the man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.

But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhat

sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he

could, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the

back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he

had ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely

carry him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection of

everything and could no longer think about anything, and so he sat

down at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He

was soon awakened, however, by a rough shake, and, on opening his

eyes, he saw two cocked hats of shiny leather bending over him, and

the two gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding his

arms.

"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier jeeringly. But

Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to

ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He had

become a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not

let him go again.

"Now, start!" the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late

afternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and

in half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open,

for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women

and girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed and

every woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so that

they might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first

house in the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where the

mayor was waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, and

as soon as he saw him approaching he cried:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, more

pleased than he usually was, and continued: "I said so. I said so, the

moment I saw him in the road."

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get your

twenty years, my fine fellow!"

THE FISHING HOLE

"Cuts and wounds which caused death." Such was the charge upon which

Leopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes.

Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flamèche, widow of the

victim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber.

Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly little

woman, who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady.

This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama:

"Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim all

the time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts are

their own commentary, Monsieur le Président. I am an honest man, a

hard-working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for the

last sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as my

neighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiable

every day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest men

and respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much the

worse for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue to

respect myself.

"Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the day

at Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh!

we are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Mélie inspired me

with that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than I

am, the scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is her

fault, as you will see immediately.

"I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me.

But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin.

Very well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny that

she has some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones for

a man in business. But her character! Just ask about it in the

neighborhood, and even the porter's wife, who has just sent me about

my business ... she will tell you something about it.

"Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would not

put up with this! I would not put up with that.' If I had listened to

her, Monsieur le Président, I should have had at least three

hand-to-hand fights a month...."

Madame Renard interrupted him: "And for good reasons, too; they laugh

best who laugh last."

He turned toward her frankly: "Well, I can't blame you, since you were

not the cause of it."

Then, facing the President again, he said:

"I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so as

to begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which has

become second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago this

summer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In the

shade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole with

cavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise for

the fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property,

Monsieur le Président, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody in

the neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They would

say: 'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, not

even Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without any

offense, for poaching on other people's preserves.

"Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if I

had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into

Delila, with my wife. Delila is my Norwegian boat, which

I had built by Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as I

said, we got into the boat and we were going to set bait, and for

setting bait there is none to be compared with me, and they all know

it. You want to know with what I bait? I cannot answer that question;

it has nothing to do with the accident. I cannot answer; that is my

secret. There are more than three hundred people who have asked me; I

have been offered glasses of brandy and liqueur, fried fish,

matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try whether the chub will

come. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at my secret, my recipe.

Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any more than I will. Is

not that so, Mélie?"

The president of the court interrupted him.

"Just get to the facts as soon as you can," and the accused continued:

"I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July

8, we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner we

went to set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and I

said to Mélie: 'All right for tomorrow.' And she replied: 'It looks

like it.' We never talk more than that together.

"And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that was

the cause of everything. I said to Mélie: 'Look here, Mélie, it is

fine weather, suppose I drink a bottle of Casque à mèche.' That

is a weak white wine which we have christened so, because if you drink

too much of it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of a

nightcap. Do you understand me?

"She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again and

will not be able to get up tomorrow.' That was true, sensible and

prudent, clearsighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could not

resist, and I drank my bottle. It all came from that.

"Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clock

in the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should not

have heard the angel sounding his trump at the last Judgment.

"In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed,

hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped on

board Delila. But it was too late, for when I arrived at my

hole it was already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me in

three years, and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under my

own eyes. I said to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And then

my wife began to nag at me. 'Eh! what about your Casque à

mèche? Get along, you drunkard! Are you satisfied, you great

fool?' I could say nothing, because it was all true, but I landed all

the same near the spot and tried to profit by what was left. Perhaps

after all the fellow might catch nothing and go away.

"He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and a

large straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, sat

behind him.

"When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Are

there no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious,

replied: 'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habits

of the neighborhood before occupying reserved spots.'

"As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Mélie.

Let them alone, let them alone; we shall see.'

"Well, we fastened Delila under the willows and had landed and

were fishing side by side, Mélie and I, close to the two others. But

here, monsieur, I must enter into details.

"We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's line

began to jerk twice, thrice, and then he pulled out a chub as thick as

my thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, the

perspiration stood on my forehead and Mélie said to me: 'Well, you

sot, did you see that?'

"Just then Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, who is fond of gudgeon

fishing, passed in a boat and called out to me: 'So somebody has taken

your usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And I replied--: 'Yes, Monsieur

Bru, there are some people in this world who do not know the rules of

common politeness.'

"The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of a

wife, either."

Here the president interrupted him a second time: "Take care, you are

insulting the widow, Madame Flamèche, who is present."

Renard made his excuses: "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; my

anger carried me away. Well, not a quarter of an hour had passed when

the little man caught another chub, and another almost immediately,

and another five minutes later.

"Tears were in my eyes, and I knew that Madame Renard was boiling with

rage, for she kept on nagging at me: 'Oh, how horrid! Don't you see

that he is robbing you of your fish? Do you think that you will catch

anything? Not even a frog, nothing whatever. Why, my hands are

tingling, just to think of it.'

"But I said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve o'clock. Then this

poacher will go to lunch and I shall get my place again. As for me,

Monsieur le Président, I lunch on that spot every Sunday. We bring our

provisions in Delila. But there! At noon the wretch produced a

chicken in a newspaper, and while he was eating, he actually caught

another chub!

"Mélie and I had a morsel also, just a bite, a mere nothing, for our

heart was not in it.

"Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I read

the Gil Blas in the shade by the side of the water. It is

Columbine's day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles in

the Gil Blas. I generally put Madame Renard into a rage by

pretending to know this Columbine. It is not true, for I do not know

her and have never seen her, but that does not matter. She writes very

well, and then she says things that are pretty plain for a woman. She

suits me and there are not many of her sort.

"Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got angry immediately, and

very angry, so I held my tongue. At that moment our two witnesses who

are present here, Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Durdent, appeared on

the other side of the river. We knew each other by sight The little

man began to fish again and he caught so many that I trembled with

vexation and his wife said: 'It is an uncommonly good spot, and we

will come here always, Désiré.' As for me, a cold shiver ran down my

back, and Madame Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a man; you have

the blood of a chicken in your veins'; and suddenly I said to her:

'Look here, I would rather go away or I shall be doing something

foolish.'

"And she whispered to me, as if she had put a red-hot iron under my

nose: 'You are not a man. Now you are going to run away and surrender

your place! Go, then, Bazaine!'

"I felt hurt, but yet I did not move, while the other fellow pulled

out a bream. Oh, I never saw such a large one before, never! And then

my wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, and you can see

her tricks. She said: 'That is what one might call stolen fish, seeing

that we set the bait ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give us

back the money we have spent on bait.'

"Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in her turn: 'Do you mean

to call us thieves, madame?' Explanations followed and compliments

began to fly. Oh, Lord! those creatures know some good ones. They

shouted so loud that our two witnesses, who were on the other bank,

began to call out by way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you will

interfere with your husbands' fishing.'

"The fact is that neither the little man nor I moved any more than if

we had been two tree stumps. We remained there, with our eyes fixed on

the water, as if we had heard nothing; but, by Jove! we heard all the

same. 'You are a thief! You are nothing better than a tramp! You are a

regular jade!' and so on and so on. A sailor could not have said more.

"Suddenly I heard a noise behind me and turned round. It was the other

one, the fat woman, who had attacked my wife with her parasol.

Whack, whack! Mélie got two of them. But she was furious, and

she hits hard when she is in a rage. She caught the fat woman by the

hair and then thump! thump! slaps in the face rained down like

ripe plums. I should have let them fight it out: women together, men

together. It does not do to mix the blows. But the little man in the

linen jacket jumped up like a devil and was going to rush at my wife.

Ah! no, no, not that, my friend! I caught the gentleman with the end

of my fist, and crash! crash! One on the nose, the other in the

stomach. He threw up his arms and legs and fell on his back into the

river, just into the hole.

"I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le Président,

if I had had time. But, to make matters worse, the fat woman had the

upper hand and was pounding Mélie for all she was worth. I know I

ought not to have interfered while the man was in the water, but I

never thought that he would drown and said to myself: 'Bah, it will

cool him.'

"I therefore ran up to the women to separate them and all I received

was scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took me

five minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two viragos. When I

turned round there was nothing to be seen. The water was as smooth as

a lake and the others yonder kept shouting: 'Fish him out! fish him

out!' It was all very well to say that, but I cannot swim and still

less dive.

"At last the man from the dam came and two gentlemen with boathooks,

but over a quarter of an hour had passed. He was found at the bottom

of the hole, in eight feet of water, as I have said. There he was, the

poor little man, in his linen suit! Those are the facts such as I have

sworn to. I am innocent, on my honor."

The witnesses having given testimony to the same effect, the accused

was acquitted.

THE SPASM

The hotel guests slowly entered the dining-room and took their places.

The waiters did not hurry themselves, in order to give the late comers

a chance and thus avoid the trouble of bringing in the dishes a second

time. The old bathers, the habitués, whose season was almost over,

glanced, gazed toward the door whenever it opened, to see what new

faces might appear.

This is the principal distraction of watering places. People look

forward to the dinner hour in order to inspect each day's new

arrivals, to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think.

We always have a vague desire to meet pleasant people, to make

agreeable acquaintances, perhaps to meet with a love adventure. In

this life of elbowings, unknown strangers assume an extreme

importance. Curiosity is aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself,

and sociability is the order of the day.

We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we see

people with different eyes, when we view them through the medium of

acquaintanceship at watering places. We discover in men suddenly,

after an hour's chat, in the evening after dinner, under the trees in

the park where the healing spring bubbles up, a high intelligence and

astonishing merits, and a month afterward we have completely forgotten

these new friends, who were so fascinating when we first met them.

Permanent and serious ties are also formed here sooner than anywhere

else. People see each other every day; they become acquainted very

quickly, and their affection is tinged with the sweetness and

unrestraint of long-standing intimacies. We cherish in after years the

dear and tender memories of those first hours of friendship, the

memory of those first conversations in which a soul was unveiled, of

those first glances which interrogate and respond to questions and

secret thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory of

that first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensation

of opening our hearts to those who seem to open theirs to us in

return.

And the melancholy of watering places, the monotony of days that are

all alike, proves hourly an incentive to this heart expansion.

*       *       *       *       *

Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited the

appearance of strange faces.

Only two appeared, but they were very remarkable, a man and a

woman--father and daughter. They immediately reminded me of some

of Edgar Poe's characters; and yet there was about them a charm,

the charm associated with misfortune. I looked upon them as the victims

of fate. The man was very tall and thin, rather stooped, with perfectly

white hair, too white for his comparatively youthful physiognomy;

and there was in his bearing and in his person that austerity

peculiar to Protestants. The daughter, who was probably twenty-four

or twenty-five, was small in stature, and was also very thin, very

pale, and she had the air of one who was worn out with utter lassitude.

We meet people like this from time to time, who seem too weak for

the tasks and the needs of daily life, too weak to move about, to

walk, to do all that we do every day. She was rather pretty, with a

transparent, spiritual beauty. And she ate with extreme slowness, as if

she were almost incapable of moving her arms.

It must have been she, assuredly, who had come to take the waters.

They sat facing me, on the opposite side of the table; and I at once

noticed that the father had a very singular, nervous twitching.

Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand described a sort of

zigzag before it succeeded in reaching what it was in search of, and

after a little while this movement annoyed me so that I turned aside

my head in order not to see it.

I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on her

left hand.

After dinner I went for a stroll in the park of the bathing

establishment. This led toward the little Auvergnese station of

Châtel-Guyon, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, from

which flowed so many boiling springs, arising from the deep bed of

extinct volcanoes. Over yonder, above our heads, the domes of extinct

craters lifted their ragged peaks above the rest in the long mountain

chain. For Châtel-Guyon is situated at the entrance to the land of

mountain domes.

Beyond it stretches out the region of peaks, and, farther on again,

the region of precipitous summits.

The "Puy de Dôme" is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy is

the loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of these

mountain heights.

It was a very warm evening, and I was walking up and down a shady

path, listening to the opening strains of the Casino band, which was

playing on an elevation overlooking the park.

And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in my

direction. I bowed as one bows to one's hotel companions at a watering

place; and the man, coming to a sudden halt, said to me:

"Could you not, monsieur, tell us of a nice walk to take, short,

pretty, and not steep; and pardon my troubling you?"

I offered to show them the way toward the valley through which the

little river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tall,

craggy, wooded slopes.

They gladly accepted my offer.

And we talked, naturally, about the virtue of the waters.

"Oh," he said, "my daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which is

unknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous attacks. At one

time the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at another

time they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at another

they declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day this protean

malady, that assumes a thousand forms and a thousand modes of attack,

is attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron and regulator

of the body. This is why we have come here. For my part, I am rather

inclined to think it is the nerves. In any case it is very sad."

Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of his

hand came back to my mind, and I asked him:

"But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nerves

somewhat affected?"

He replied calmly:

"Mine? Oh, no--my nerves have always been very steady."

Then, suddenly, after a pause, he went on:

"Ah! You were alluding to the jerking movement of my hand every time I

try to reach for anything? This arises from a terrible experience

which I had. Just imagine, this daughter of mine was actually buried

alive!"

I could only utter, "Ah!" so great were my astonishment and emotion.

He continued:

"Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for some

time to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had disease

of that organ, and were prepared for the worst.

"One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She had

fallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that life

was extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laid

her with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to the

cemetery, where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situated

in the very heart of Lorraine.

"I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces,

rings, all presents which she had received from me, and wearing her

first ball dress.

"You may easily imagine my state of mind when I re-entered our home.

She was the only one I had, for my wife had been dead for many years.

I found my way to my own apartment in a half-distracted condition,

utterly exhausted, and sank into my easy-chair, without the capacity

to think or the strength to move. I was nothing better now than a

suffering, vibrating machine, a human being who had, as it were, been

flayed alive; my soul was like an open wound.

"My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in her

coffin, and aided me in preparing her for her last sleep, entered the

room noiselessly, and asked:

"'Does monsieur want anything?'

"I merely shook my head in reply.

"'Monsieur is wrong,' he urged. 'He will injure his health. Would

monsieur like me to put him to bed?'

"I answered: 'No, let me alone!'

"And he left the room.

"I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh, what a night, what a

night! It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and the

wind, the winter wind, an icy wind, a winter hurricane, blew with a

regular, sinister noise against the windows.

"How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless,

crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp,

inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly the great

doorbell, the great bell of the vestibule, rang out.

"I started so that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderous

sound vibrated through the empty country house as through a vault. I

turned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It was just two in

the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?

"And, abruptly, the bell again rang twice. The servants, without

doubt, were afraid to get up. I took a wax candle and descended the

stairs. I was on the point of asking: 'Who is there?'

"Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly drew back the heavy

bolts. My heart was throbbing wildly. I was frightened. I opened the

door brusquely, and in the darkness I distinguished a white figure,

standing erect, something that resembled an apparition.

"I recoiled, petrified with horror, faltering:

"'Who--who--who are you?'

"A voice replied:

"'It is I, father.'

"It was my daughter.

"I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backward before this

advancing spectre. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand,

as if to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you have

noticed--that gesture which has remained with me ever since.

"'Do not be afraid, papa,' said the apparition. 'I was not dead.

Somebody tried to steal my rings and cut one of my fingers; the blood

began to flow, and that restored me to life.'

"And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood.

"I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in my

throat.

"Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was still

so bewildered that I scarcely realized the awesome happiness that

had befallen me, I made her go up to my room and sit down in my

easy-chair; then I rang excitedly for Prosper to get him to rekindle

the fire and to bring some wine, and to summon assistance.

"The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gasp

of alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back dead.

"It was he who had opened the vault, who had mutilated and then

abandoned my daughter; for he could not efface the traces of the

theft. He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin into

its place, feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected by

me, as I trusted him absolutely.

"You see, monsieur, that we are very unfortunate people."

*       *       *       *       *

He was silent.

The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournful

vale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself by

the side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come back

from the tomb, and this father with his uncanny spasm.

I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. I

only murmured:

"What a horrible thing!"

Then, after a minute's silence, I added:

"Let us go indoors. I think it is growing cool."

And we made our way back to the hotel.

IN THE WOOD

As the mayor was about to sit down to breakfast, word was brought to

him that the rural policeman, with two prisoners, was awaiting him at

the Hotel de Ville. He went there at once and found old Hochedur

standing guard before a middle-class couple whom he was regarding with

a severe expression on his face.

The man, a fat old fellow with a red nose and white hair, seemed

utterly dejected; while the woman, a little roundabout individual with

shining cheeks, looked at the official who had arrested them, with

defiant eyes.

"What is it? What is it, Hochedur?"

The rural policeman made his deposition: He had gone out that morning

at his usual time, in order to patrol his beat from the forest of

Champioux as far as the boundaries of Argenteuil. He had not noticed

anything unusual in the country except that it was a fine day, and

that the wheat was doing well, when the son of old Bredel, who was

going over his vines, called out to him: "Here, Daddy Hochedur, go and

have a look at the outskirts of the wood. In the first thicket you

will find a pair of pigeons who must be a hundred and thirty years old

between them!"

He went in the direction indicated, entered the thicket, and there he

heard words which made him suspect a flagrant breach of morality.

Advancing, therefore, on his hands and knees as if to surprise a

poacher, he had arrested the couple whom he found there.

The mayor looked at the culprits in astonishment, for the man was

certainly sixty, and the woman fifty-five at least, and he began to

question them, beginning with the man, who replied in such a weak

voice that he could scarcely be heard.

"What is your name?"

"Nicholas Beaurain."

"Your occupation?"

"Haberdasher, in the Rue des Martyrs, in Paris."

"What were you doing in the wood?"

The haberdasher remained silent, with his eyes on his fat paunch, and

his hands hanging at his sides, and the mayor continued:

"Do you deny what the officer of the municipal authorities states?"

"No, monsieur."

"So you confess it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"What have you to say in your defence?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Where did you meet the partner in your misdemeanor?"

"She is my wife, monsieur."

"Your wife?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then--then--you do not live together--in Paris?"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but we are living together!"

"But in that case--you must be mad, altogether mad, my dear sir, to

get caught playing lovers in the country at ten o'clock in the

morning."

The haberdasher seemed ready to cry with shame, and he muttered: "It

was she who enticed me! I told her it was very stupid, but when a

woman once gets a thing into her head--you know--you cannot get it

out."

The mayor, who liked a joke, smiled and replied: "In your case, the

contrary ought to have happened. You would not be here, if she had had

the idea only in her head."

Then Monsieur Beaurain was seized with rage, and turning to his wife,

he said: "Do you see to what you have brought us with your poetry? And

now we shall have to go before the courts at our age, for a breach of

morals! And we shall have to shut up the shop, sell our good will, and

go to some other neighborhood! That's what it has come to."

Madame Beaurain got up, and without looking at her husband, she

explained herself without embarrassment, without useless modesty, and

almost without hesitation.

"Of course, monsieur, I know that we have made ourselves ridiculous.

Will you allow me to plead my cause like an advocate, or rather like a

poor woman? And I hope that you will be kind enough to send us home,

and to spare us the disgrace of a prosecution.

"Years ago, when I was young, I made Monsieur Beaurain's acquaintance

one Sunday in this neighborhood. He was employed in a draper's shop,

and I was a saleswoman in a ready-made clothing establishment. I

remember it as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundays

here occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Levèque, with whom I

lived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none.

He used to bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that he

should bring a friend with him the next day. I quite understood what

he meant, but I replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous,

monsieur.

"The next day we met Monsieur Beaurain at the railway station, and in

those days he was good-looking, but I had made up my mind not to

encourage him, and I did not. Well, we arrived at Bezons. It was a

lovely day, the sort of day that touches your heart. When it is fine

even now, just as it used to be formerly, I grow quite foolish, and

when I am in the country I utterly lose my head. The green grass, the

swallows flying so swiftly, the smell of the grass, the scarlet

poppies, the daisies, all that makes me crazy. It is like champagne

when one is not accustomed to it!

"Well, it was lovely weather, warm and bright, and it seemed to

penetrate your body through your eyes when you looked, and through

your mouth when you breathed. Rose and Simon hugged and kissed each

other every minute, and that gave me a queer feeling! Monsieur

Beaurain and I walked behind them, without speaking much, for when

people do not know each other, they do not find anything to talk

about. He looked timid, and I liked to see his embarrassment. At last

we got to the little wood; it was as cool as in a bath there, and we

four sat down. Rose and her lover teased me because I looked rather

stern, but you will understand that I could not be otherwise. And then

they began to kiss and hug again, without putting any more restraint

upon themselves than if we had not been there; and then they whispered

together, and got up and went off among the trees, without saying a

word. You may fancy what I looked like, alone with this young fellow

whom I saw for the first time. I felt so confused at seeing them go

that it gave me courage, and I began to talk. I asked him what his

business was, and he said he was a linen draper's assistant, as I told

you just now. We talked for a few minutes, and that made him bold, and

he wanted to take liberties with me, but I told him sharply to keep

his place. Is not that true, Monsieur Beaurain?"

Monsieur Beaurain, who was looking at his feet in confusion, did not

reply, and she continued: "Then he saw that I was virtuous, and he

began to make love to me nicely, like an honorable man, and from that

time he came every Sunday, for he was very much in love with me. I was

very fond of him also, very fond of him! He was a good-looking fellow,

formerly, and in short he married me the next September, and we

started in business in the Rue des Martyrs.

"It was a hard struggle for some years, monsieur. Business did not

prosper, and we could not afford many country excursions, and,

besides, we had got out of the way of them. One has other things in

one's head, and thinks more of the cash box than of pretty speeches,

when one is in business. We were growing old by degrees without

perceiving it, like quiet people who do not think much about love. One

does not regret anything as long as one does not notice what one has

lost.

"And then, monsieur, business became better, and we were tranquil as

to the future! Then, you see, I do not exactly know what went on in my

mind, no, I really do not know, but I began to dream like a little

boarding-school girl. The sight of the little carts full of flowers

which are drawn about the streets made me cry; the smell of violets

sought me out in my easy-chair, behind my cash box, and made my heart

beat! Then I would get up and go out on the doorstep to look at the

blue sky between the roofs. When one looks up at the sky from the

street, it looks like a river which is descending on Paris, winding as

it flows, and the swallows pass to and fro in it like fish. These

ideas are very stupid at my age! But how can one help it, monsieur,

when one has worked all one's life? A moment comes in which one

perceives that one could have done something else, and that one

regrets, oh! yes, one feels intense regret! Just think, for twenty

years I might have gone and had kisses in the woods, like other women.

I used to think how delightful it would be to lie under the trees and

be in love with some one! And I thought of it every day and every

night! I dreamed of the moonlight on the water, until I felt inclined

to drown myself.

"I did not venture to speak to Monsieur Beaurain about this at first.

I knew that he would make fun of me, and send me back to sell my

needles and cotton! And then, to speak the truth, Monsieur Beaurain

never said much to me, but when I looked in the glass, I also

understood quite well that I no longer appealed to any one!

"Well, I made up my mind, and I proposed to him an excursion into the

country, to the place where we had first become acquainted. He agreed

without mistrusting anything, and we arrived here this morning, about

nine o'clock.

"I felt quite young again when I got among the wheat, for a woman's

heart never grows old! And really, I no longer saw my husband as he is

at present, but just as he was formerly! That I will swear to you,

monsieur. As true as I am standing here I was crazy. I began to kiss

him, and he was more surprised than if I had tried to murder him. He

kept saying to me: 'Why, you must be mad! You are mad this morning!

What is the matter with you?' I did not listen to him, I only listened

to my own heart, and I made him come into the wood with me. That is

all. I have spoken the truth, Monsieur le Maire, the whole truth."

The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, and

said: "Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, be

more discreet."

MARTINE

It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from church

along the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of him

Martine, who was also going home.

Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of a

rich farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray cloth

and on his head a round-topped hat with wide brim.

She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked

along erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and

prominent hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed with

flowers, made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her

full, round, supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which

fluttered little stray locks of hair.

Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved,

without, however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.

Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same,

that Martine." He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily,

feeling a desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see her

face again, no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself:

"Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl."

Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martinière," the farm of her

father, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turned

round. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She called

out: "Good-morning, Benoist." He replied: "Good-morning, Martine;

good-morning, mait' Martin," and went on his way.

When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down opposite

his mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid

servant went to draw some cider.

He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:

"Don't you feel well?"

"No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away my

appetite."

He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread from

time to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it

slowly. He thought of Martine. "She is a fine girl, all the same." And

to think that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him,

just like that, all at once, and with such force that he could not

eat.

He did not touch the stew. His mother said:

"Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will do

you good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves to

eat."

He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:

"No. I can't go that, positively."

When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm

hand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he

passed by them.

The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there in

a field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies,

chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standing

at the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed

showed broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had

lately been harvested.

A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool

evening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his

hat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud

in the stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is a

fine girl."

He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when

he awoke.

He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what

ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened

in his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort

of tickling sensation in his heart.

Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,

buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops;

you forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look

up. You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it

keep still. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing

again.

The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an

imprisoned fly.

Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martinière several

times. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line

stretched between two apple trees.

It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,

showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He

remained there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even

after she had left. He returned home more obsessed with her image than

ever.

For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name was

mentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats that

kept him from sleeping.

On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it and

smiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.

One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when

she saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear

and emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:

"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer."

She replied as if she wanted to tease him:

"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?"

"My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day," he

answered.

She put her hands on her hips.

"I do not oblige you to do so."

"Yes, it is you," he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat,

nor anything."

"What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked.

He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, his

mouth agape.

She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.

From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads or

else at twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home with

his horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable.

He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of his

heart and body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eat

her, make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence,

impatience, rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as if

they were one being.

People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they were

engaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and she

had answered "Yes."

They were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents about

it.

But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. He

did not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could only

catch a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after the

sermon, the priest actually published the banns of marriage between

Victoire-Adelaide-Martin and Joséphin-Isidore Vallin.

Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drained

off. He had a buzzing in the ears, and could hear nothing; and

presently he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book.

For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work.

But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided the

roads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the trees

in the yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning and

evening.

She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district.

Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades from

childhood.

One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that she

was enceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, he

experienced, on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now,

all over. They were more separated by that than by her marriage. He

really preferred that it should be so.

Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,

going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed as

she saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turned

out of his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.

He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to

face, and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now,

after all he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissed

her hair beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings along

the roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises.

By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And one

day he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived.

He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that

she lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks

crowed on the dunghill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm

hands had gone to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the

gate and looked into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel,

three calves were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the

pond. A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before the

turkey hens like a singer at the opera.

Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a

desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help

coming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping

the wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a

prolonged, heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It

was she who was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass

patch, pushed open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body

drawn up, her face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of

childbirth.

He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:

"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"

She replied in gasps:

"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to

cry out again:

"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"

She writhed frightfully.

Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to

quiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid

her on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her

clothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to

keep from crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for

cows, ewes, and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his

hands a large infant who was moaning.

He wiped it off and wraped it up in a towel that was drying in front

of the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that

was on the table. Then he went back to the mother.

He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed the

bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:

"Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart." And then she wept a

little as if she felt regretful.

He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over.

Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured him

better than ten years of absence.

She asked, exhausted and trembling:

"What is it?"

He replied calmly:

"It is a very fine girl."

Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother,

in a weak voice, said:

"Show her to me, Benoist."

He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he were

holding the consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and Isidore

Vallin appeared.

He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed.

Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:

"I was passing, I was just passing by when I heard her crying out, and

I came--there is your child, Vallin!"

Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took the

little mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable to

speak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on the

bed, he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:

"Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. If

you are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!"

And Benoist replied:

"Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will."

ALL OVER

Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a parting

glance at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in his

dressing-room and smiled.

He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall,

slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache of

doubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility,

a "chic," in short, that indescribable something which establishes a

greater difference between two men than would millions of money. He

murmured:

"Lormerin is still alive!"

And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaited

him.

On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of the

gentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying beside

three newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spread

out all these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; and

he scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before opening

the envelopes.

It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vague

anxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What did

they contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed them

with a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selecting

them, making two or three lots, according to what he expected from

them. Here, friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent;

further on, strangers. The last kind always gave him a little

uneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced those

curious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple,

nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at it

uneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: "From whom

can it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identify

it."

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between

two fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making up

his mind to open it.

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifying

glass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. He

suddenly felt unnerved. "Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me,

very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often.

But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can it

be from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money."

And he tore open the letter. Then he read:

My Dear Friend: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now

twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. When

I bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into the

provinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call "my

hospital." Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I am

returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a daughter,

a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed you

of her birth, but you certainly did not pay much attention to so

trifling an event.

You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well if you

still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come and

dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance, your

ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy, reaches

out to you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss,

my poor Jaquelet.

Lise de Vance.

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair with

the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by a

poignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes! If he had

ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise de

Vance, whom he called "Ashflower," on account of the strange color of

her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty,

charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that gouty,

pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shut

her up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of the

handsome Lormerin.

Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he, too, had been truly

loved. She familiarly gave him the name of Jaquelet, and would

pronounce that word in a delicious fashion.

A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far off and sweet and

melancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from

a ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in

evening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the

weather was beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warm

air--the odor of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her

skin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's

rays fell across the branches into the water, she began to weep. A

little surprised, he asked her why.

She replied:

"I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time I

see poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have to

cry."

He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion

charming--the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman whom every

sensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:

"My little Lise, you are exquisite."

What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and

over all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old

brute of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one

see her afterward.

Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months.

One woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a

bachelor! No matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart,

for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.

He rose, and said aloud: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her this

evening!"

And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself from

head to foot. He reflected: "She must look very old, older than I

look." And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her

still handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling

her with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far

distant!

He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of no

importance.

The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was

she like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-five

years! But would he recognize her?

He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat,

which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the

hairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, for

he had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his

eagerness to see her.

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly

furnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from

the days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk

frame.

He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,

and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended

both hands toward him.

He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,

lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and

who, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.

He could not abstain from murmuring:

"Is it you, Lise?"

She replied:

"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would

you? I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my

life. Look at me now--or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome

you have kept--and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I

would have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!' Now, sit down and let us, first of

all, have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up

daughter. You'll see how she resembles me--or, rather, how I resembled

her--no, it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of former

days--you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I feared

that there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Now

it is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend."

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to

say; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had never

seen her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk

about? Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her?

He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly

face. He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet,

so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought of

the other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had

become of her, the former one, the one he had loved? That woman of

far-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to

call him "Jaquelet" so prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,

profoundly ill at ease.

As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and

slowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.

"I am going to call Renée," she said.

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a young

voice exclaimed:

"Here I am, mamma!"

Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.

He stammered:

"Good-day, mademoiselle."

Then, turning toward the mother:

"Oh! it is you!"

In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise

who had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won

twenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more

childlike.

He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart

again, murmuring in her ear:

"Good-morning, Lison!"

A man-servant announced:

"Dinner is ready, madame."

And they proceeded toward the dining-room.

What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could

he say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strange

dreams which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with a

fixed idea in his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:

"Which is the real one?"

The mother smiled, repeating over and over again:

"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl

that he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened

his mouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?" forgetting this

white-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.

And yet, there were moments when he no longer felt sure, when he lost

his head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly the

woman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, in

her glances, in her entire being, something which he did not find

again. And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love,

to seize again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated one

did not possess.

The baronne said:

"You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend."

He murmured:

"There are many other things that I have lost!"

But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing

to life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.

The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then some

familiar intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain style

of speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which

people acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot.

All these things penetrated him, making the reopened wound of his

passion bleed anew.

He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image

of this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart,

inflamed his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a

young one, the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as

he had loved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor,

after an interval of twenty-five years.

He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to

think what he should do.

But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the

glass, the large glass in which he had contemplated himself and

admired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly,

gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected what he had been in olden

days, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming and

handsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the light

nearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strange

thing with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering those

frightful ravages, which he had not perceived till now.

And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of his

lamentable image, murmuring:

"All over, Lormerin!"

THE PARROT

I

Everybody in Fécamp knew Mother Patin's story. She had certainly been

unfortunate with her husband, for in his lifetime he used to beat her,

just as wheat is threshed in the barn.

He was master of a fishing bark and had married her, formerly, because

she was pretty, although poor.

Patin was a good sailor, but brutal. He used to frequent Father

Auban's inn, where he would usually drink four or five glasses of

brandy, on lucky days eight or ten glasses and even more, according to

his mood. The brandy was served to the customers by Father Auban's

daughter, a pleasing brunette, who attracted people to the house only

by her pretty face, for nothing had ever been gossiped about her.

Patin, when he entered the inn, would be satisfied to look at her and

to compliment her politely and respectfully. After he had had his

first glass of brandy he would already find her much nicer; at the

second he would wink; at the third he would say: "If you were only

willing, Mam'zelle Désirée----" without ever finishing his sentence;

at the fourth he would try to hold her back by her skirt in order to

kiss her; and when he went as high as ten it was Father Auban who

brought him the remaining drinks.

The old innkeeper, who knew all the tricks of the trade, made Désirée

walk about between the tables in order to increase the consumption of

drinks; and Désirée, who was a worthy daughter of Father Auban,

flitted around among the benches and joked with them, her lips smiling

and her eyes sparkling.

Patin got so well accustomed to Désirée's face that he thought of it

even while at sea, when throwing out his nets, in storms or in calms,

on moonlit or dark evenings. He thought of her while holding the

tiller in the stern of his boat, while his four companions were

slumbering with their heads on their arms. He always saw her, smiling,

pouring out the yellow brandy with a peculiar shoulder movement and

then exclaiming as she turned away: "There, now; are you satisfied?"

He saw her so much in his mind's eye that he was overcome by an

irresistible desire to marry her, and, not being able to hold out any

longer, he asked for her hand.

He was rich, owned his own vessel, his nets and a little house at the

foot of the hill on the Retenue, whereas Father Auban had nothing. The

marriage was therefore eagerly agreed upon and the wedding took place

as soon as possible, as both parties were desirous for the affair to

be concluded as early as convenient.

Three days after the wedding Patin could no longer understand how he

had ever imagined Désirée to be different from other women. What a

fool he had been to encumber himself with a penniless creature, who

had undoubtedly inveigled him with some drug which she had put in his

brandy!

He would curse all day long, break his pipe with his teeth and maul

his crew. After he had sworn by every known term at everything that

came his way he would rid himself of his remaining anger on the fish

and lobsters, which he pulled from the nets and threw into the baskets

amid oaths and foul language. When he returned home he would find his

wife, Father Auban's daughter, within reach of his mouth and hand, and

it was not long before he treated her like the lowest creature in the

world. As she listened calmly, accustomed to paternal violence, he

grew exasperated at her quiet, and one evening he beat her. Then life

at his home became unbearable.

For ten years the principal topic of conversation on the Retenue was

about the beatings that Patin gave his wife and his manner of cursing

at her for the least thing. He could, indeed, curse with a richness of

vocabulary in a roundness of tone unequalled by any other man in

Fécamp. As soon as his ship was sighted at the entrance of the harbor,

returning from the fishing expedition, every one awaited the first

volley he would hurl from the bridge as soon as he perceived his

wife's white cap.

Standing at the stern, he would steer, his eye fixed on the bows and

on the sail, and, notwithstanding the difficulty of the narrow passage

and the height of the turbulent waves, he would search among the

watching women and try to recognize his wife, Father Auban's daughter,

the wretch!

Then, as soon as he saw her, notwithstanding the noise of the wind and

waves, he would let loose upon her with such power and volubility that

every one would laugh, although they pitied her greatly. When he

arrived at the dock he would relieve his mind, while unloading the

fish, in such an expressive manner that he attracted around him all

the loafers of the neighborhood. The words left his mouth sometimes

like shots from a cannon, short and terrible, sometimes like peals of

thunder, which roll and rumble for five minutes, such a hurricane of

oaths that he seemed to have in his lungs one of the storms of the

Eternal Father.

When he left his ship and found himself face to face with her,

surrounded by all the gossips of the neighborhood, he would bring up a

new cargo of insults and bring her back to their dwelling, she in

front, he behind, she weeping, he yelling at her.

At last, when alone with her behind closed doors, he would thrash her

on the slightest pretext. The least thing was sufficient to make him

raise his hand, and when he had once begun he did not stop, but he

would throw into her face the true motive for his anger. At each blow

he would roar: "There, you beggar! There, you wretch! There, you

pauper! What a bright thing I did when I rinsed my mouth with your

rascal of a father's apology for brandy!"

The poor woman lived in continual fear, in a ceaseless trembling of

body and soul, in everlasting expectation of outrageous thrashings.

This lasted ten years. She was so timorous that she would grow pale

whenever she spoke to any one, and she thought of nothing but the

blows with which she was threatened; and she became thinner, more

yellow and drier than a smoked fish.

II

One night, when her husband was at sea, she was suddenly awakened by

the wild roaring of the wind! She sat up in her bed, trembling, but,

as she heard nothing more, she lay down again; almost immediately

there was a roar in the chimney which shook the entire house; it

seemed to cross the heavens like a pack of furious animals snorting

and roaring.

Then she arose and rushed to the harbor. Other women were arriving

from all sides, carrying lanterns. The men also were gathering, and

all were watching the foaming crests of the breaking waves.

The storm lasted fifteen hours. Eleven sailors never returned; Patin

was among them.

In the neighborhood of Dieppe the wreck of his bark, the

Jeune-Amélie, was found. The bodies of his sailors were found

near Saint-Valéry, but his body was never recovered. As his vessel

seemed to have been cut in two, his wife expected and feared his return

for a long time, for if there had been a collision he alone might have

been picked up and carried afar off.

Little by little she grew accustomed to the thought that she was rid

of him, although she would start every time that a neighbor, a beggar

or a peddler would enter suddenly.

One afternoon, about four years after the disappearance of her

husband, while she was walking along the Rue aux Juifs, she stopped

before the house of an old sea captain who had recently died and whose

furniture was for sale. Just at that moment a parrot was at auction.

He had green feathers and a blue head and was watching everybody with

a displeased look. "Three francs!" cried the auctioneer. "A bird that

can talk like a lawyer, three francs!"

A friend of the Patin woman nudged her and said: "You ought to buy

that, you who are rich. It would be good company for you. That bird is

worth more than thirty francs. Anyhow, you can always sell it for

twenty or twenty-five!"

Patin's widow added fifty centimes, and the bird was given her in a

little cage, which she carried away. She took it home, and, as she was

opening the wire door in order to give it something to drink, he bit

her finger and drew blood.

"Oh, how naughty he is!" she said.

Nevertheless she gave it some hemp-seed and corn and watched it

pruning its feathers as it glanced warily at its new home and its new

mistress.

On the following morning, just as day was breaking, the Patin woman

distinctly heard a loud, deep, roaring voice calling: "Are you going

to get up, carrion?"

Her fear was so great that she hid her head under the sheets, for when

Patin was with her as soon as he would open his eyes he would shout

those well-known words into her ears.

Trembling, rolled into a ball, her back prepared for the thrashing

which she already expected, her face buried in the pillows, she

murmured: "Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he

has come back!"

Minutes passed; no noise disturbed the quiet room. Then, trembling,

she stuck her head out of the bed, sure that he was there, watching,

ready to beat her. Except for a ray of sun shining through the window,

she saw nothing, and she said to herself: "He must be hidden."

She waited a long time and then, gaining courage, she said to herself:

"I must have dreamed it, seeing there is nobody here."

A little reassured, she closed her eyes, when from quite near a

furious voice, the thunderous voice of the drowned man, could be heard

crying: "Say! when in the name of all that's holy are you going to get

up, you b----?"

She jumped out of bed, moved by obedience, by the passive obedience of

a woman accustomed to blows and who still remembers and always will

remember that voice! She said: "Here I am, Patin; what do you want?"

But Patin did not answer. Then, at a complete loss, she looked around

her, then in the chimney and under the bed and finally sank into a

chair, wild with anxiety, convinced that Patin's soul alone was there,

near her, and that he had returned in order to torture her.

Suddenly she remembered the loft, in order to reach which one had to

take a ladder. Surely he must have hidden there in order to surprise

her. He must have been held by savages on some distant shore, unable

to escape until now, and he had returned, worse that ever. There was

no doubting the quality of that voice. She raised her head and asked:

"Are you up there, Patin?"

Patin did not answer. Then, with a terrible fear which made her heart

tremble, she climbed the ladder, opened the skylight, looked, saw

nothing, entered, looked about and found nothing. Sitting on some

straw, she began to cry, but while she was weeping, overcome by a

poignant and supernatural terror, she heard Patin talking in the room

below. He seemed less angry and he was saying: "Nasty weather! Fierce

wind! Nasty weather! I haven't eaten, damn it!"

She cried through the ceiling: "Here I am, Patin; I am getting your

meal ready. Don't get angry."

She ran down again. There was no one in the room. She felt herself

growing weak, as if death were touching her, and she tried to run and

get help from the neighbors, when a voice near her cried out: "I

haven't had my breakfast, by G----!"

And the parrot in his cage watched her with his round, knowing, wicked

eye. She, too, looked at him wildly, murmuring: "Ah! so it's you!"

He shook his head and continued: "Just you wait! I'll teach you how to

loaf."

What happened within her? She felt, she understood that it was he, the

dead man, who had come back, who had disguised himself in the feathers

of this bird in order to continue to torment her; that he would curse,

as formerly, all day long, and bite her, and swear at her, in order to

attract the neighbors and make them laugh. Then she rushed for the

cage and seized the bird, which scratched and tore her flesh with its

claws and beak. But she held it with all her strength between her

hands. She threw it on the ground and rolled over it with the frenzy

of one possessed. She crushed it and finally made of it nothing but a

little green, flabby lump which no longer moved or spoke. Then she

wrapped it in a cloth, as in a shroud, and she went out in her

nightgown, barefoot; she crossed the dock, against which the choppy

waves of the sea were beating, and she shook the cloth and let drop

this little dead thing, which looked like so much grass. Then she

returned, threw herself on her knees before the empty cage, and,

overcome by what she had done, kneeled and prayed for forgiveness, as

if she had committed some heinous crime.

THE PIECE OF STRING

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the

peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked

slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long,

crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes

the left shoulder higher, and bends their figures sideways; from

reaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep

on their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though

varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered

design and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like

balloons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope.

And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the

back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large

baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These

women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their

erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over

their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth,

enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Now a char-à-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up

strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the

cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled

multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high,

long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the women

came to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices

made a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a huge

burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a

prolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house.

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration

giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to

country folks.

Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had just arrived at Goderville and was

making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a

little piece of string. Maître Hauchecorne, economical as are all true

Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be

of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered

from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and

was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maître Malandain,

the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a

quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever

since. Maître Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being

seen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly

hid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches

pocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on the

ground which he did not discover and finally went off toward the

market-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled in

two by rheumatic pains.

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and

noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows,

went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never

quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the

effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken

out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together,

with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided

manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the

smaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was

starting to go away:

"All right, I'll let you have them, Maît' Anthime."

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus

struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast

court was filled with vehicles of every sort--wagons, gigs,

chars-à-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name,

yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to

heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose, on the ground and

their rear in the air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace,

with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those

who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens,

with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast

meat and of gravy flowing ever crisp brown skin arose from the hearth,

kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Maît'

Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp

fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow

cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.

They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens,

but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house.

Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at

once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and

napkins in their hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a

jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all

persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on

the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather

pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are

requested, to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre

Fortuné Houlbrèque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs

reward."

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull

beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all

began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maître

Houlbrèque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal

of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

"Is Maître Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, here?"

Maître Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, answered:

"Here I am, here I am."

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the

notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

"Maître Hauchecorne," said he, "this morning on the Beuzeville road,

you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maître Houlbrèque, of

Manneville."

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement, frightened already at

this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

"I--I picked up that pocketbook?"

"Yes, you."

"I swear I don't even know anything about it."

"You were seen."

"I was seen--I? Who saw me?"

"M. Malandain, the harness-maker."

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger,

said:

"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string

here, M'sieu le Maire."

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the

little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

"You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain,

who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for

a pocketbook."

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside

him as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

"For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's

salvation, I repeat it."

The mayor continued:

"After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for

some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of

it."

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

"How can they tell--how can they tell such lies as that to slander an

honest man! How can they?"

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his

testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request

Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he

would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man was

surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or

mocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered.

And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe

him. They laughed.

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his

acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his

protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he

had nothing in them.

They said to him:

"You old rogue!"

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being

believed, and kept on telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his

neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the

string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round of the village of Breauté for the

purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night long.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand

of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the

pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbrèque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not

knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his

master.

The news spread to the environs. Maître Hauchecorne was informed. He

started off at once and began to relate his story with the dénoûment.

He was triumphant.

"What grieved me," said he, "was not the thing itself, do you

understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so

much harm as being in disgrace for lying."

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the

people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next

Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell

them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without

his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they

listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks

behind his back.

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville,

prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him

pass. Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, and

giving him a punch in the pit of the stomach, cried in his face: "Oh,

you great rogue!" Then he turned his heel upon him.

Maître Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy.

Why had they called him "great rogue"?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain

the whole affair.

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

"Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string."

Hauchecorne stammered:

"But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"

But the other continued:

"Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's another

who returns it. And no one the wiser."

The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him of

having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a

confederate.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the more

cast down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable of

having done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as a

good trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove his

innocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck

to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day,

each day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and more

sacred oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of

solitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the

string. The more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the less

he was believed.

"Those are liars' proofs," they said behind his back.

He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in useless

efforts.

He was visibly wasting away.

Jokers would make him tell the story of "the piece of string" to amuse

them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his

story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of

December he took to his bed.

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony,

he protested his innocence, repeating:

"A little bit of string--a little bit of string. See, here it is,

M'sieu le Maire."

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Table of Contents

GUY DE MAUPASSANT UNE VIE

A Piece of String

And Other Stories

CONTENTS

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

A Study by Pol. Neveux

UNE VIE OR, THE HISTORY OF A HEART

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

A VAGABOND

THE FISHING HOLE

THE SPASM

IN THE WOOD

MARTINE

ALL OVER

THE PARROT

I

II

THE PIECE OF STRING

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE